TAMF.  URR4HY,  LOS  ANGILES 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER 


BY 


FLORENCE  WARDER 


CHICAGO: 
M.   A.   DONOHUE   &    Co. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

RISHTON"  HALL  FAEM  was  let  at  last.  Lord  Stannington 
had  had  it  on  his  hands  a  long  time,  and  had  offered  it  at  a 
lower  and  ever  lower  rent.  It  was  an  open  secret  that  John 
Oldshaw,  who  had  a  long  lease  of  Lower  Rishton  Farm  at  the 
other  end  of  the  village,  had  expected  the  Rishton  Hall  lease 
to  drop  into  his  hands  at  last  for  a  very  trifling  rent  indeed. 
He  was  a  careful  man;  the  property  under  his  hands  throve; 
and  he  was  fond  of  saying  that  his  lordship  would  make  a 
better  bargain  by  letting  him  have  the  land  at  £10  an  acre 
than  by  letting  another  man  have  it  at  £15.  However,  Lord 
Stannington  had  apparently  thought  otherwise;  at  any  rate, 
when  a  stranger  appeared  upon  the  scene  and  offered  him  a 
fair  rent  for  the  land  without  any  haggling,  they  came  to 
terms  without  delay,  and  John  Oldshaw  found  that  his  hoped- 
for  bargain  had  escaped  him. 

This  West  Riding  farmer  was  not  a  nice  person  to  deal  with 
when  he  was  disappointed.  He  drove  over  to  Sheffield  to  the 
agent's  office,  and  stamped  into  that  gentleman's  presence, 
his  square,  heavy  face  purple  with  ill-suppressed  rage. 

"  Na  then,  Maister  Garrett,  be  pleased  to  tell  mah  if  yen- 
der's  true  as  Ah  hear,  that  Rishton  Hall  Farm's  let  to  a 
stranger?"  he  bellowed,  thumping  the  table  with  his  broad 
fist,  and  glaring  at  the  agent  with  the  unreasoning  fierceness 
of  an  angry  bull. 

Mr.  Garrett  was  a  slight,  fair  man  of  uncertain  age,  whose 
light  eyes  were  accustomed,  by  long  practice,  to  read  men 
pretty  accurately. 

"  Quite  true,  Mr.  Oldshaw,"  he  answered,  civilly,  with  im- 
perturbable coolness.  "It  was  let  a  fortnight  ago;  and  the 
new  tenant  comes  in — let  me  see  " — referring  to  his  papers — 
"  on  the  16th;  this  day  week,  in  fact." 

"  And  dost  tha'  knaw,  Maister  Garrett,  that  Ab/re  had  ma 
mahnd  set  on  Rishton  Hall  Farm  for  this  twelvemonth  and 
mair?" 

24 
_ii_ 


6  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  How  could  we  know  it,  Mr.  Oldshaw,  since  the  farm's 
been  in  the  market  more  than  twice  that  time,  and  we  have 
never  had  any  intimation  from  you  of  a  wish  for  it?" 

"  We  Yarkshiremen  doan't  do  things  in  a  hurry.  But 
every  mon  in  t'  village  knawed  Ah'd  set  ma  heeart  on  t' 
farm,  and  noo  Ah'm  to  be  t'  laughing-stock  o'  a,'  t'  feeals  i' 
t*  coontry,  and  Rishton  Farm  let  ower  ma  yead  to  a  stranger 
as  nawbody's  ever  heeard  on!" 

And  the  farmer  gave  an  apoplectic  snort  of  malignant 
anger. 

Oh,  but  that  is  not  the  case,  Mr.  Oldshaw,"  said  the 
agent  as  quietly  as  ever;  "  Mr.  Denison,  the  gentleman  who 
has  taken  the  farm,  is  a  friend  of  friends  of  his  lordship,  and 
in  every  way  a  tenant  of  the  most  desirable  kind." 

John  Oldshaw  calmed  down  suddenly,  and  into  his  small, 
blood-shot  blue  eyes  there  came  a  satisfied  twinkle. 

"  A  gentleman,  ye  say.  A  gentleman's  got  the  farm!"  in 
a  tone  of  the  deepest  contempt.  "  Thank  ye,  Maister  Gar- 
rett,  Ah'm  quite  satisfied.  It's  not  for  me  to  grumble  at  his 
lordship,  then.  Ah  can  pity  him.  The*  never  was  t'  gentle- 
man barn  could  do  any  good  at  farming,  and  if  a  gentleman 
barn's  got  Eishton  Hall  Farm,  all  t'  ill  I  wish  his  lordship  is 
— may  t'  gentleman  barn  stick  to's  bargain." 

And  with  these  words,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  fierce  triumph, 
the  farmer,  who  had  not  removed  his  hat  on  entering  the 
office,  turned  and  stalked  out  with  every  appearance  of  enjoy- 
ing, as  he  had  intimated,  a  complete  revenge. 

The  village  of  Rishton  boasted  two  inns,  both  of  the  most 
unpretending  kind.  The  larger  and  more  important  of  these 
was  the  Chequers,  a  stone  building  of  the  simplest  kind  of 
architecture,  to  which  were  attached  numerous  small  out- 
buildings, forming  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle  for  Mr.  Tew's 
gig  and  Mrs.  Tew's  hens.  The  Chequers  stood  just  outside 
the  gate  of  Rishton  Hall  Farm,  and  its  windows  commanded 
the  approach  from  Matherham,  the  nearest  market-town, 
which  was  three  miles  away.  On  the  16th  of  January,  the 
day  of  the  expected  arrival  of  the  new  tenant  of  Rishton  Hall, 
John  Oldshaw  took  up  his  stand  at  one  of  the  inn  windows, 
watching  with  malevolent  eyes  for  the  approach  of  his  rival. 
It  was  a  bitterly  cold  day,  gray  overhead  and  black  under 
foot;  and  the  frost,  which  had  held  for  three  days,  was  grow- 
ing harder  as  the  afternoon  wore  on.  John  Oldshaw,  with  a 
sense  of  keen  disappointment,  had  at  last  to  acquiesce  in  the 
general  belief  that  the  new  tenant  would  not  come  to-day. 

"  If  he's  coom  as  far  as  Matherham  he'll  stop  there  t'  night, 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  7 

Maister  Oldshaw,"  said  Tew,  the  landlord,  a  small  man,  ruled 
by  his  wife.  "  T'  ground's  too  slaippery  for  e'er  a  horse  to 
stand  on,  lettin'  alone  t'  road's  all  hill  and  dale  'tween  this 
and  Matherham.  Besides,  t'  awd  house  is  as  bare  as  a  barn; 
he'd  never  coom  till  he'd  sent  some  stuff  to  put  in  it,  and  'a 
coople  o'  servants  to  set  it  to  rights  a  bit. " 

Well,  it  ain't  ma  way  o'  doin'  things,  to  neame  wan  day 
for  coomin'  and  then  to  coom  another,"  said  Oldshaw,  con- 
temptuously. "  But  then,  Ah'm  naw  gentleman,  and  my 
Lord  Stannington  '11  mighty  soon  wish  as  he  could  say  same  o' 
t'  new  tenant,  Maister  Tew." 

Mr.  Tew  could  not  afford  to  have  an  independent  opinion  in 
the  presence  of  the  great  man  of  the  village,  with  that  misera- 
ble Cock  and  Bottle  not  five  hundred  yards  away,  gaping  for 
first  place  as  the  hostelry  of  the  elite. 

"  It's  ta  mooch  to  expect  to  get  another  tenant  like  you, 
Maister  Oldshaw,"  he  said,  discreetly. 

It  was  by  this  time  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  the  gray  day 
was  already  beginning  to  darken  toward  a  black  evening  when 
Mat  Oldshaw,  the  farmer's  oldest  son,  who  had  been  sent  by 
his  father  to  the  top  of  the  hill  on  the  lookout,  re-entered  the 
inn  at  a  pace  somewhat  faster  than  his  usual  shambling  gait 
He  was  a  tall,  round-shouldered  lad  of  about  twenty,  with  fair 
hair  and  a  weather-tanned  face,  whose  heavy  dullness  was  for 
the  moment  lightened  by  a  passing  gleam  of  great  excitement. 

:<  Weel,  Mat,  hast  seean  a  ghoost?"  asked  his  father. 

"  Naw,  feyther;  but  there's  a  cab  coomin'  down  t'  hill — " 

"  So  Maister  Gentleman's  coom,  has  he?"  shouted  the 
farmer,  triumphantly;  and  he  had  seized  his  stout  ash  stick, 
and  was  making  with  ponderous  strides  for  the  door,  as  if  witn 
the  intention  of  inflicting  bodily  chastisement  on  the  insolent 
new-comer,  when  his  son  interposed,  blushing  a  deep  brick-red 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

'  "  Eh,  but  feyther/'  he  stammered,  turning  to  the  door 
handle  uneasily,  and  dividing  his  glances  between  the  floor, 
the  window,  and  his  father's  boorish  face,  "  it's  na  tj  gentle- 
man; it's  nobbut  twea  lasses.'* 

After  which  admission,  he  fell  to  blushing  more  violently 
than  before. 

"  Twea  lasses?"  echoed  Oldshaw,  incredulously. 

"  Hey,  feyther.    An'  wan  o'  them's  got  a  feace  lik'  a  rose. '; 

"  Feace  lik'  a  rose?"  thundered  the  farmer.  "  Doan't  thee 
daze  tha  dull  wits  lookin'  at  wenches'  faces,  for  Ah  tell  tha 
Ah'll  have  na  son  o'  mine  hangin'  aboot  t'  Hall  noo. " 


8  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  She  bain't  no  lass  for  t'  likes  o'  mea,  feyther;  yon  lass  is 
a  leady,"  said  the  lad,  simply. 

If  the  stranger's  fair  face  had  not,  as  his  father  suggested, 
dazed  his  dull  wits  already,  the  young  man  would  surely  have 
had  the  tact  to  restrain  these  rash  words,  which  fanned  the 
flame  of  his  father's  coarse  malevolence. 

"Aleady!  A  f oine  leady!  ta  foine  for  any  son  o' mine? 
Ah  tell  thee,  feeal,  t'  day'll  coom  when  tha  foine  leady'll  wish 
she  wur  good  enoo  for  t'  loikes  o'  thee;  and  good  enoo  she 
shall  never  be — tha  heears?" 

Though  the  young  man's  head  was  bent  in  a  listening  atti- 
tude, and  he  assented  in  the  meekest  of  gruff  voices,  the  father 
guessed  that  this  deep  attention  was  not  all  for  his  discourse, 
when  the  sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels  on  the  hard  ground  out- 
side attracted  him  to  the  outer  door,  which  he  reached  in  time 
to  see  a  luggage-laden  cab  slowly  descend  the  hill  and  pass  the 
inn  door,  giving  time  for  a  look  at  the  two  young  faces  inside. 
Mistress  and  maid  evidently;  both  bright,  eager,  and  rather 
anxious.  The  former  met  full  the  surly  stare  of  the  farmer, 
and  she  drew  back  her  head  as  if  a  blast  of  chilling  wind  had 
met  her  on  her  approach  to  her  new  home.  The  little  maid, 
who  had  rosy  cheeks  and  what  one  may  call  retrousee  features, 
was  less  sensitive,  and  she  looked  out  to  resent  this  cold  un- 
welcome with  a  contemptuous  toss  of  the  head. 

"  They're  reg'lar  savages  in  these  parts,  Miss  Olivia,"  she 
said,  in  a  slightly  raised  tone.  "  1  only  hope  we  may  be  un- 
eaten by  the  time  the  master  comes!" 

The  cab  had  passed  the  front  of  the  inn,  and  was  rounding 
the  sharp  turn  which  led  up  a  slight  ascent  through  the  open 
farm-yard  gate,  when  suddenly,  without  any  warning  except 
a  few  rough  jolts  over  the  uneven  ground,  it  turned  over  on 
its  side,  to  the  accompaniment  of  shrill  screams  from  one 
female  throat,  and  a  less  loud  but  more  plaintive  cry  from  the 
other.  Mat  Oldshaw,  who  was  standing  on  the  inn  doorstep 
behind  his  father,  made  a  spring  forward  to  help  them.  But 
the  elder  man,  with  a  movement  quicker  than  one  would  have 
expected  from  his  clumsy  form  and  ponderous  gait,  grasped 
his  arm  with  a  violence  which  made  the  lad  reel,  and  giving 
him  a  push  back  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  said,  in  a  low, 
thick  voice: 

"  Doan't  thoo  meddle  with  what  doan't  concern  thee. 
Wheer  there's  so  mooch  cry,  there  ain't  mooch  hurt,  tak'  ma 
word  for  't. " 

"  Feyther!"  said  Mat,  indignantly,  entreatingly.  Then  he 
was  dumb,  for  even  through  his  not  overbright  brains  came  a 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB.  9 

suspicion  that  this  accident  was  perhaps  not  wholly  unexpected 
by  one  of  its  witnesses. 

As  this  brief  scene  passed  between  father  and  son,  a  man  in 
a  short  frieze  coat,  knickerbockers,  gaiters,  and  deer-stalker 
cap,  who  had  quickened  his  pace  down  the  hill  into  a  run  on 
seeing  the  accident,  looked  full  into  the  faces  of  both  men 
with  a  keen,  shrewd  expression  as  he  dashed  by. 

"  It's  Parson  Brander,  o'  St.  Cuthbert's,  feyther.  He  heeard 
thee,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  husky,  awed  whisper. 

"  An*  wha  not?  Ah'd  loike  to  see  sik  as  him  say  a  word  to 
me!"  said  the  farmer,  in  a  loud  voice  of  boastful  contempt. 

And  the  attitudes  respectively  of  father  and  son,  the  one  of 
contemptuous  disgust,  the  other  of  awe-struck  respect,  repre- 
sented the  two  views  most  commonly  taken  in  the  country-side 
of  the  Reverend  Vernon  Brander,  Vicar  of  Saint  Cuthbert's. 

Before  the  last  disdainful  word  was  out  of  John  Oldshaw's 
mouth,  the  new-comer  had  opened  the  cab-door,  and  extricated 
the  two  girls  from  their  unpleasant  position.  The  maid  was 
uppermost,  but  she  was  a  little  creature,  and  had  probably  in- 
flicted far  less  inconvenience  on  her  more  massively  built  mis- 
tress than  that  young  lady  would  have  inflicted  on  her  had 
their  positions  been  reversed.  Her  rosy  cheeks  had  lost  their 
color,  and  from  her  forehead,  which  had  been  cut  by  the  broken 
glass  of  the  carriage  window,  blood  was  trickling  down. 

In  answer  to  the  gentleman's  inquiries  as  to  whether  she  was 
hurt,  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice  that  she  didn't  know  yet, 
and  begged  him  to  get  her  mistress  out.  This  he  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  do,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  thanks  of  a  young  lady 
whom  he  at  once  decided  to  be  one  of  the  handsomest  girls 
that  this  or  any  other  country  ever  produced. 

Olivia  Denison  was  indeed  an  unchallenged  beauty,  and  had 
occupied  that  proud  position  almost  ever  since,  twenty  years 
ago,  she  had  been  pronounced  to  be  "  a  lovely  baby."  She 
was  tall — of  that  cruel  height  which  forces  short  admirers,  on 
pain  of  looking  ridiculous,  to  keep  their  distance;  of  figure 
rather  massive  than  slender,  with  a  fair  skin,  a  fresh  color, 
dark  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a  winning  expression  of  energy  and 
honesty  which  gave  to  the  whole  face  its  greatest  charm.  For 
the  moment,  however,  the  rose  color  had  left  her  cheeks,  too, 
and  her  lips  were  drawn  tightly  together. 

"  You  are  hurt,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  stranger,  with  con- 
cern. 

"  I've  only — pinched — my  finger,"  she  answered,  trying  to 
laugh. 

But  the  effort  of  speaking  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes, 


10  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

much  to  her  indignation.  For  she  was  brave,  and  she  liked  to 
have  the  credit  of  it. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  he,  with  kindly  authority. 

She  presented  her  right  hand,  from  which  he  drew  the  glove 
ve^rj  gently,  disclosing  bruised  and  slightly  discolored  finger- 
tips. 

"  They  do  hurt  a  little,  but  it's  nothing  very  dreadful.  I 
don't  know  how  I  did  it,"  she  said. 

"  Lucky  it's  no  worse,"  said  the  stranger,  kindly.  "  Now 
for  the  lad." 

The  young  driver  was  looking  ruefully  at  the  overturned 
vehicle.  He  proved  to  have  escaped  with  no  worse  damage 
than  a  battered  hat.  Lucy,  the  maid,  who  had  ascertained 
tljat  her  head  was  still  on  her  shoulders,  had  bound  up  her  cut 
forehead  with  her  handkerchief,  and  was  scolding  the  driver 
for  his  carelessness  as  she  pointed  to  the  scattered  luggage. 
The  traces  having  broken  as  the  cab  fell,  the  horse  had  sus- 
tained very  little  hurt,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  the  accident  had 
been  without  tragic  consequences.  The  rescuer  took  hold  of 
the  girl,  and  shook  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Now,  don't  you  think,  considering  all  things,  you  might 
find  some  better  use  for  your  tongue  than  scolding?  You 
might  have  been  upset  a  mile  away  on  the  road,  instead  of 
which  you  are  turned  out  comfortably  at  your  own  door.  For, 
I  suppose,  you  are  coming  to  the  Hall?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Lucy,  abashed,  but  still  rather  mu- 
tinous, not  having  the  least  idea  that  she  was  speaking  to  a 
clergyman. 

"  So  that  the  real  sufferer  by  this  spill  is  neither  you  nor 
your  mistress,  but  the  poor  lad  who  has  driven  you  safely 
more  than  three  miles  over  a  very  dangerously  slippery  road, 
and  who  will  perhaps  get  discharged  by  his  master  for  having 
injured  the  cab.  Your  mistress  does  not  scold  you  for  half  an 
hour  if  you  break  a  plate. " 

"  Yes,  she  does,  sir,"  fired  up  Lucy,  so  unexpectedly  that 
Mr.  Brander  involuntarily  glanced  with  surprise  at  the  young 
lady.  "  Oh,  not  Miss  Olivia,"  added  the  little  maid  almost 
indignantly;  "  it's  Mrs.  Denison,  I  mean." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  find  the  habit  so  unamiable  in  Mrs. 
Denison,  as  I  see  you  do,  you  should  take  the  greatest  care 
not  to  fall  into  it  yourself,"  said  the  vicar,  suppressing  a  smile. 

Then  he  turned  again  to  the  lady. 

"  Is  everything  ready  for  your  coming?"  he  asked,  doubt- 
fully. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE.  H 

For  he  had  passed  the  house  that  morning,  and  found  it  de- 
serted, mildewed,  and  shuttered  up  as  usual. 

"  No,  nothing/'  said  the  girl.  "We've  come  on  in  ad- 
vance to  prepare  things  for  papa  and  mamma  and  the  rest/' 
she  added,  rather  tremulously. 

The  frightful  immensity  of  the  undertaking  perhaps  struck 
her  now  for  the  first  time,  as  she  stood,  still  shaking  from  the 
shock  of  the  accident,  staring  at  the  smokeless  chimneys  and 
shuttered  windows  of  the  new  home.  Mr.  Brander  looked 
from  one  girl  to  the  other,  very  sorry  for  both,  wondering  what 
kind  of  idiots  the  parents  could  be  to  send  two  inexperienced 
young  lasses  to  grapple  with  all  the  difficulties  of  installation. 

"  And  the  furniture?  I  suppose  that  has  come?"  he  sug- 
gested, dubiously. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  said  the  girl,  anxiously. 

"  I'll  ask  at  the  inn  here.  If  it  has  come  they  will  have 
seen  it  pass.  And  Mrs.  Tew  will  give  you  both  a  cup  of  tea. 
You  don't  mind  going  into  an  inn,  do  you?  It's  a  very  re- 
spectable place." 

"Oh,  no;  of  course  we  don't,"  said  Miss  Denison.  "In- 
deed, it  is  very,  very  kind  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  for 
us." 

"  Trouble!  Nonsense.  It's  a  splendid  excitement.  As 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  should  like  a  pair  of  travelers  over- 
turned here  once  a  week.*' 

He  beckoned  to  Lucy,  and  led  them  the  few  steps  back  to 
the  inn  door.  John  Oldshaw  was  still  standing  in  a  defiant 
attitude  on  the  doorstep,  whence  he  had  watched  the  proceed- 
ings with  malicious  interest.  His  son  was  still  peeping  out, 
sheepish  and  ashamed,  from  behind  him. 

"  Here,  Mat,  will  you  run  round  to  Mrs.  Wall's — tell  her 
that  Miss  Denison  has  come,  and  ask  for  the  key  of  the  Hall?" 
said  he.  "  And  then  you  might  lend  me  a  hand  to  take  some 
of  the  lady's  trunks  into  the  house. " 

Mat's  face  brightened  and  flushed. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  he  said,  and  tried  to  push  past  his  father. 
But  the  elder  man  blocked  the  door-way  with  his  arms,  and 
stood  like  a  rock. 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  obstinately;  "  Mat  doesna'  stir  at  tha'  bid- 
ding. Help  the  wenches  thasel';  thoo's  used  to  't." 

Olivia  drew  back;  she  was  shocked,  frightened,  by  the 
dogged  ferocity  of  the  farmer's  face  and  by  the  sudden  ex- 
pression of  some  strong  feelings — whether  anger  or  anguish 
she  could  not  quite  tell — which  for  a  moment  convulsed  the 
features  of  her  unknown  companion.  As  for  Oldshaw's  coarse 


12  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE. 

words  the  strong  Yorkshire  dialect  rendered  them  unintelligi- 
ble to  her.  They,  however,  roused  the  spirit  of  the  phlegmatic 
Mat. 

"  For  shame,  feyther!"  cried  he,  in  a  voice  which  was  a 
new  terror  for  the  young  lady  whose  champion  he  thus  de- 
clared himself  to  be.  "  Maister  Brander,  Ah'll  go  loike  a 
reace-horse. " 

And  ducking  his  long  body  under  his  father's  left  arm  with 
an  unceremonious  roughness  which  shook  that  mighty  man 
from  his  dignity,  he  touched  his  cap  to  Olivia  with  oafish  re- 
spect, and  ran  off  down  the  lane  past  the  Hall  barns  with  the 
best  speed  of  his  long  legs. 

"  We  won't  go  in  there,  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Olivia, 
when  Mr.  Brander  had  come  back  to  the  spot  to  which  she  had 
retreated.  "  I  could  not  pass  that  man;  I  would  rather  not 
go  near  him. " 

"  Will  you  wait  here  while  I  find  out  about  the  furniture, 
then?" 

"  Please  promise  not  to  quarrel  with  that  horrid  man  about 
his  rudeness  to  us.  I  can  see  he  is  one  of  those  people  who 
can't  help  being  rude  and  horrid,  just  as  some  other  people 
can't  help  being  unselfish  and  kind,"  said  the  girl,  shyly,  but 
with  much  warmth.  "  Will  you  please  promise?" 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  simply,  looking  into  her  face  with  a  grave, 
straightforward  expression  of  interest  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
of  gratitude  which  surprised  and  touched  her. 

Then  he  turned  without  another  word,  almost  as  if  afraid  to 
say  another  word,  and  going  back  rapidly  to  the  inn,  passed 
the  farmer,  who  sullenly  made  way  for  him,  and  disappeared 
into  the  house.  When  he  came  back,  his  face  was  full  of  deep 
concern  of  a  different  kind. 

"  I  bring  bad  news,"  he  said  to  the  girls,  who,  mistress  and 
maid,  were  shrinking  together  in  their  desolation.  "I  am 
afraid  your  furniture  has  not  come,  and — they  say  they  haven't 
a  room  to  spare  in  the  inn  for  to-night.  But  if  Mrs.  Tew 
could  see  you  and  speak  to  you  herself — " 

"  1  wouldn't  stay  in  the  house,"  burst  out  Olivia,  indignant- 
ly. "  If  we  can  only  get  into  the  Hall,  Lucy  and  I  can  man- 
age very  well  indeed." 

"  But  the  place  is  sure  to  be  hideously  damp,  and  there  are 
no  carpets;  in  fact,  there's  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  in 
dismay. 

"The  resources  of  the  feminine  mind  are  infinite, "  said 
Olivia,  who  was  again  blinking  behind  her  veil.  "  Here  comes 
the  old  woman  who  has  the  keys,  I  suppose.  I  shall  get  her 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  13 

to  take  us  in  for  a  little  while — at  least,  she'll  have  a  cottage 
and  a  fire  somewhere  or  other.  And  perhaps  while  we  are 
waiting  there  the  furniture  will  come. " 

Mr.  Brander  looked  at  her  with  renewed  compassion.  Ho 
thought  this  last  a  forlorn  hope. 

"  Don't  be  disappointed  if  it  doesn't  come  yet,"  he  said,  eu- 
couragingly.  "  Old  Sarah  Wall  will  do  her  best  for  you,  I'm 
sure,  and  all  the  better  if  she  doesn't  see  me  talking  to  you. 
For  you  won't  hear  any  good  of  me  from  her. " 

And  before  Olivia  could  detain  him  to  pour  out  again  the 
thanks  for  his  kindness  with  which  her  heart  was  overflowing, 
he  had  raised  his  hat  with  a  sudden  cold  withdrawal  into  him- 
self, and  turning  with  the  rapidity  of  the  most  accomplished 
athlete,  disappeared  along  the  road  which  led  through  Lower 
Eishton,  leaving  her  overwhelmed  with  surprise  at  the  abrupt 
change  in  his  manner  and  with  desolation  at  this  unexpected- 
ly sudden  loss  of  their  only  friend. 


CHAPTER   II. 

OLD  Sarah  Wall,  the  key-bearer,  who  now  came  ambling  up 
at  a  very  slow  pace,  holding  her  hand  to  her  side,  and  mut- 
tering feebly  as  she  moved,  was  a  poor  exchange,  Olivia 
thought,  for  the  masculine  friend  who  had  ended  his  kindly 
services  so  abruptly.  He  had  not  even  waited,  as  he  had  inti- 
mated an  intention  of  doing,  to  see  the  luggage  safely  moved 
into  the  house.  Mrs.  Wall  looked  very  cross  and  not  too 
clean.  Scarcely  deigning  to  glance  at  the  strangers,  she  mut- 
tered: "  This  way!"  and  then  fell  to  groaning  as  she  led  the 
way  through  the  farm-yard  up  to  the  house. 

Olivia  paused  to  look  despairingly  at  her  scattered  trunks, 
and  to  give  a  kindly  word  of  comfort  to  the  unlucky  cab  driver, 
who  was  still  occupied  in  estimating  the  damage  done  to  his 
vehicle,  and  his  chances  of  getting  it  back  to  Matherham  that 
night.  As  she  did  so  she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  hard  ground 
beside  her,  and  found  the  shame-faced  and  blushing  Mat  at 
her  side. 

"  Ah'll  get  t'  luggage  in  seefe,  never  fear,"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  so  gruff  with  excessive  bashfulness  that  poor  Olivia 
thought  him  surly,  and  shrunk  back  with  a  cold  refusal  of  his 
services  rising  to  her  lips. 

Mat  thought  she  identified  him  with  his  father,  and  so  has- 
tened to  offer  a  neat  apology  for  that  gentleman's  conduct. 

"  Feyther's  a  pig,"  said  he.     "  Boot  he  wunna  harm  ye! 


14  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEE. 

an*  Ab/11  do  what  Ah  can  to  mak'  oop  for  him  being  so 
rough. " 

And  he  shouldered  one  trunk  and  caught  up  another,  and 
strode  along  toward  the  house,  whistling  to  himself  with  the 
defiant  carelessness  of  one  who  feels  he  has  done  a  bold  stroke. 
The  lady  and  her  attendant  followed,  somewhat  soothed  by 
this  little  show  of  friendliness. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  feelings  of  desolation  and  disap- 
pointment, in  spite  of  the  keen  cold  and  of  the  forlorn,  blind 
look  which  shuttered  and  shut-up  windows,  broken  chimney- 
pots, and  untrimmed  ivy  gave  to  the  house,  Olivia  could  not 
look  quite  without  admiration  and  a  youthful  sense  of  delight 
in  the  picturesque  at  the  old  HalL  The  body  of  the  house 
was  a  long,  plain,  two-storied  building,  with  a  flagged  roof  and 
a  curious  wide,  flat  portico,  supported  by  two  spindle-shank 
wooden  windows,  beneath  which  three  stone  steps,  deeply  hol- 
lowed out  and  worn  by  generations  of  feet,  led  to  the  front 
door.  At  the  west  end  a  gable  wing,  flag-roofed  like  the  rest, 
ran  back  from  the  body  of  the  house;  and  at  right  angles  to 
this  there  jutted  out  westward  a  second  small  wing  of  the  same 
shape.  In  these,  the  oldest  portions  of  the  house,  traces  of 
former  architectural  beauty  remained  in  stately  Tudor  chim- 
neys and  two  mullioned  windows,  round  which  the  ivy  clustered 
in  huge  bushes,  long  left  neglected  and  untrimmed.  At  this 
end  of  the  building  a  little  garden  ran  underneath  the  walls, 
protected  from  the  incursions  of  intrusive  cows  by  a  wall  which 
began  toward  the  back  of  the  house  by  being  very  high  and 
ending  toward  the  front  by  being  very  low.  From  the  wall  to 
the  house  the  garden  had  been  shut  in  by  palings  and  a  little 
gate;  but  these  were  now  much  broken  and  decayed,  and 
afforded  small  protection  to  the  yews  and  holly  bushes,  the 
little  leafless  barberry-tree  and  the  shabby  straggling  ever- 
greens, which  grew  thickly  against  the  weather-stained  walls 
of  the  old  house,  choking  the  broken  panes  of  the  lower  win- 
dows as  the  ivy  did  those  of  the  upper  ones.  It  was  this 
western  end  that  was  visible  from  the  road,  the  view  of  the 
front  being  obscured  by  a  long  stone-built  barn,  very  old,  and 
erected  on  foundations  older  still,  about  which  hung  traditions 
of  monkish  days. 

If  she  had  seen  it  at  any  other  time,  Olivia  would  have  been 
crazy  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  living  in  such  a  place; 
and  even  now,  cheerless  as  the  immediate  prospect  was,  it  gave 
her  a  gleam  of  comfort  to  reflect  that,  if  she  did  have  to  pass 
the  night  without  any  bed  among  the  rats,  the  ancestors  of 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  15 

those  rats  had  scampered  over  the  place  in  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth. 

With  some  difficulty,  Mrs.  Wall  turned  the  key  in  the  rusty 
lock  and  admitted  them.  It  seemed  that  she  had  a  grievance 
in  the  fact  that  she  had  not  known  on  what  day  they  were  to 
arrive.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  one  of  those  persons  who 
are  never  prepared  for  anything,  but  Olivia  had  had  no  means 
of  learning  her  peculiarities,  and  so  she  met  the  old  woman's 
complaints  in  an  humble  and  apologetic  spirit  which  increased 
Mrs.  Wall's  arrogance. 

The  entrance  hall  was  low-roofed  and  square;  the  walls  were 
covered  with  a  cheap  and  commonplace  paper,  the  wainscot- 
ing and  the  balusters  of  the  broad  staircase  were  of  painted 
wood.  This  was  the  portion  of  the  house  which  had  suffered 
most  during  its  decadence.  Olivia,  examining  everything  with 
an  eye  keen  to  discover  the  good  points  to  be  made  the  most 
of  it  in  her  new  home,  found  that  where  the  paint  had  worn 
off  the  staircase  and  wainscot  dark  oak  was  revealed  under- 
neath, and  she  rashly  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror  at  the 
vandalism  of  the  farm's  late  occupants. 

"  The  idea  of  spoiling  beautiful  dark  oak  with  this  horrid 
paint!  Why,  the  people  who  did  it  ought  to  be  sent  to  penal 
servitude!" 

Mrs.  Wall  was  scanadalized. 

"  T'  fowk  'as  lived  here  last  liked  t'  place  clean,"  she  said, 
severely.  "  It'll  nivver  look  t'  same  again  as  it  did,  vvi'  a 
clean  white  antimacassar  stitched  on  to  ivery  cheer,  an'  wax 
flowers  under  glass  sheades  in  a*  t'  parlor  windows.  An'  V 
parlor  a' ways  as  neat  as  a  new  pin,  so  ye  wur  afreaid  a'most 
to  coom  into  't.  Ah,  ye  meen  talk  o  yer  gentlefowk,  but 
they'll  nivver  mak'  it  look  't  same  again. " 

Olivia  had  opened  the  door  to  the  right,  and  throwing  wide 
the  shutters  of  one  of  the  three  large  windows,  revealed  a  long, 
low-ceilinged  room,  used  as  the  living-room  by  the  late  farm- 
er's family,  and  having  at  the  further  end  a  wide,  high,  old- 
fashioned  fire-place,  the  moldings  of  which  had  been  carefully 
covered  with  whitewash,  now  smoke-begrimed  and  worn  into 
dark  streaks.  The  shutters  and  the  wainscoting,  which  in 
this  room  was  breast-high  upon  the  walls,  had  been  treated  in 
the  same  way.  Olivia  uttered  a  groan,  and  turned  to  the 
door,  afraid  of  uttering  more  offensive  remarks.  Then  they 
went  upstairs,  and  opened  the  doors  of  a  lot  of  little  meanly 
papered  bedrooms  which  formed  the  upper  story  of  this  part 
of  the  house.  Having  allowed  the  new-comers  to  examine 


16  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

these,  while  she  remained  sniffing  in  the  passage,  Mrs.  Wall 
shuftied  hastily  back  to  the  staircase. 

"  Stop!"  cried  Olivia,  as  the  old  woman  placed  one  down- 
trodden shoe  on  the  second  step;  "  we  haven't  seen  the  other 
part  of  the  bouse  at  all.  Where  does  this  lead  to?" 

And  she  peerec  into  a  crooked  passage  which  led  into  the 
first  of  the  two  old  ^r  wings. 

Mrs.  Wall  paused  with  evident  reluctance. 

"  There's  nowt  yonder  but  t'  worst  o'  t'  bedrooms;  ye've 
seen  t'  best,"  she  grumbled. 

But  Olivia  was  already  exploring,  followed  by  Lucy;  and  the 
old  woman,  with  much  reluctance,  brought  up  the  rear.  The 
passage  was  quite  dark,  and  very  cold.  The  tallow  dip  which 
Mrs.  Wall  carried  gave  only  just  enough  light  to  enable  the 
explorers  to  find  the  handles  of  the  doors  on  the  left.  One  of 
these  Olivia  opened,  not  without  difficulty;  for  the  floor  was 
strewn  with  lumber  of  all  sorts,  which  the  last  occupier  of  the 
farm  had  not  thought  worth  carrying  away.  The  walls  of 
this  room,  which  was  very  small,  were  paneled  right  up  to  the 
low  ceiling;  and  the  paneling  had  been  whitewashed.  A 
second  chamber  in  this  passage  was  in  a  similar  condition,  ex- 
cept that  the  paneling  had  been  torn  down  from  two  of  the 
four  walls,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  layer  of  plaster.  Hold- 
ing up  her  skirts  very  carefully,  Olivia  stepped  across  the  dusty 
piles  of  broken  boxes,  damaged  fire-irons,  and  odds  and  ends 
of  torn  carpet  with  which  the  floor  of  this  room  also  was 
covered,  and  looked  through  the  dusty  panes  of  the  little  win- 
dow. 

"Now  you've  seen  a',"  said  Mrs.  Wall,  rather  querulously. 
"  An'  t'  lad  down-stairs  '11  be  wanting  to  know  wheer  to  put 
t' things." 

She  was  retreating  with  her  candle,  when  Olivia  stopped  her 
again. 

"  No,"  she  said,  eagerly,  "  we've  not  seen  all.  There's  a 
wing  of  the  house  we  have  not  been  into  at  all;  and  I  can  see 
through  the  little  window,  on  this  side  of  it,  some  curtains  and 
a  flower-vase  with  something  still  in  it.  It  doesn't  look  empty 
and  deserted  like  the  rest.  I  must  get  in  there  before  I  go 
down. " 

But  Mrs.  Wall's  old  face  had  wrinkled  up  with  superstitious 
terror,  and  it  was  only  by  force  of  muscle  that  the  young  girl 
succeeded  in  cutting  off  her  retreat. 

"  Na,"  she  said,  her  voice  sinking  to  a  croaking  whisper. 
"  I  canna  tak'  ye  in  theer.  An' — an*  t'  doors  are  locked,  ye 
see,"  she  added,  eagerly,  as  Olivia,  still  grasping  her  con- 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  17 

d  actress's  arm,  in  vain  tried  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  one  on  the  left-hand  side,  at  right  angles  with  it. 

"  Well,  but  why  are  they  locked?"  asked  the  young  girl, 
impatiently,  her  rich-toned  youthful  voice  ringing  sonorously 
through  the  long-disused  passage.  "  The  whole  place  is  ours 
now,  and  I  have  a  right  to  see  into  every  corner  of  it. " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia,  perhaps  we'd  better  go  back — down- 
stairs— for  to-day/'  suggested  the  little  maid  Lucy,  rather 
timorously  behind  her. 

Mrs.  Wall's  nervous  tremors  were  beginning  to  infect  the 
poor  girl,  who  was,  moreover,  very  cold,  and  was  longing  for 
some  tea.  But  her  young  mistress  had  at  least  her  fair  share 
of  an  immovable  British  obstinacy.  Finding  that  both  doors 
were  firmly  locked  and  that  there  was  no  key  to  either  forth- 
coming, she  flung  the  whole  weight  of  her  massive  and  mus- 
cular young  body  against  the  door  on  the  left,  until  the  old 
wood  cracked  and  the  rusty  nails  rattled  in  the  disused  hinges. 

"  Mercy  on  us!"  exclaimed  Sarah  Wall,  petrified  by  the 
audacity  of  the  young  amazon.  >e  Shoo  '11  have  t'  owd  place 
aboot  our  ears!" 

"  Take  the  candle,  Lucy,"  said  Olivia,  imperiously,  per- 
ceiving that  the  dip  was  flaring  and  wobbling  in  an  ominous 
manner  in  the  old  woman's  trembling  fingers. 

Lucy  obeyed,  frightened  but  curious.  Her  mistress  made 
two  more  vigorous  onslaughts  upon  the  door;  the  first  pro- 
duced a  great  creaking  and  straining;  at  the  second  the  door 
gave  way  on  its  upper  hinge,  so  that  the  girl's  strong  hands 
were  able  to  force  the  lock  with  ease.  She  turned  to  the 
guide  in  some  triumph. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Wall,  we'll  unearth  your  ghost,  if  there  is 
one.  At  any  rate,  we'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  your  mystery  in 
five  minutes." 

But  she  did  not.  Pressing  on  to  the  end  of  a  very  narrow, 
imlighted  passage  in  which  she  now  found  herself,  Olivia  came 
to  a  second  door;  this  opened  easily  and  admitted  her  into  a 
large  chamber,  the  aspect  of  which,  dimly  seen  by  the  fading 
light  which  came  through  a  small  square  window  on  her  left, 
filled  her  brave  young  spirit  with  a  sudden  sense  of  dreariness 
and  desolation. 

For  it  was  not  empty  and  lumber-strewn,  like  the  rest  of 
the  rooms  she  had  entered.  The  dark  forms  of  cumbrous, 
old-fashioned  furniture  were  discernible  in  the  dusk;  the  heavy 
hangings  of  a  huge  four-post  mahogany  bedstead  shook,  as  a 
rat,  disturbed  by  the  unwonted  intrusion,  slid  down  the  cur- 
tain and  scurried  across  the  floor.  As  she  stepped  slowly  for- 


18  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ward  on  the  carpet,  which  was  damp  to  the  tread,  peered  to 
the  right  and  left  in  the  gloom,  Olivia  could  see  strange  relics 
of  the  room's  last  occupant;  the  withered  remains  of  what  had 
been  a  bunch  of  flowers  on  a  table  in  front  of  the  little  win- 
dow; an  assortment  of  Christmas  cards  and  valentines,  all  of 
design  now  out  of  date,  and  all  thickly  covered  with  brown 
dust,  fastened  with  pins  on  to  the  wall  on  each  side  of  the  high 
mantel-piece;  even  a  book,  a  railway  novel,  with  its  yellow 
boards  gnawed  by  the  rats,  which  she  picked  up  rather  timor- 
ously from  the  floor,  where,  by  this  time,  it  seemed  to  have 
acquired  a  consecrated  right  to  lie. 

Still  advancing  very  slowly,  Olivia  reached  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room,  where  her  quick  eyes  had  perceived  the  barred 
shutters  of  a  second  and  much  larger  window.  With  some 
difficulty  she  removed  the  bar,  which  had  grown  stiff  and 
rusty,  and,  drawing  back  the  heavy  shutters,  revealed  the  long, 
stone-mullioned  window,  with  diamond  panes,  which  had  been 
such  a  picturesque  feature  of  the  house  from  the  outside. 
The  thick,  untrained  ivy  obscured  one  end  of  it,  but  enough 
light  glimmered  through  the  dirt-incrubted  panes  for  Olivia  to 
be  now  quite  sure  of  two  things  of  which  she  felt  nearly  sure 
before — namely,  that  this  was  the  best  bedroom  in  the  house, 
and  that,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  this  chamber,  instead 
of  being  dismantled  like  the  rest,  had  been  allowed  to  remain 
for  a  period  of  years  almost  as  its  last  occupant  had  left  it. 
Almost,  but  not  quite;  for  the  bedding  had  been  removed,  the 
covers  to  the  dressing-table  and  the  gigantic  chest  of  drawers, 
and  the  white  curtains  which  had  once  hung  before  the  shut- 
tered window. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  host  of  knickknacks  remained  to 
testify  to  the  sex,  the  approximate  age,  and  the  measure  of 
refinement  of  the  late  owner.  More  railway  novels,  all  well 
worn;  flower- vases  of  an  inexpensive  kind;  two  hand-mirrors, 
one  broken;  a  dream-book;  a  bow  of  bright  ribbon;  a  hand- 
some cut-glass  scent-bottle;  these  things,  among  others,  were 
as  suggestive  as  a  photograph;  while  the  fact  that  this  room 
alone  had  been  studiously  left  in  its  original  state,  and  even 
furnished  in  accordance  with  it,  threw  a  new  and  more  favora- 
ble light  on  the  taste  of  that  mysteriously  interesting  somebody 
whose  individuality  made  itself  felt  across  a  lapse  of  years  to 
the  wondering  new-comer. 

Olivia  Denison  was  not  by  any  means  a  fanciful  girl.  She 
had  been  brought  up  by  a  step-mother — a  mode  of  education 
little  likely  to  produce  an  unwholesome  forcing  of  the  senti- 
mental tendencies.  She  was,  besides,  too  athletic  and  rigor- 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWEB.  19 

ously  healthy  to  be  prone  to  superstitious  or  morbid  imagin- 
ings. But  as  she  stood  straining  her  eyes  in  the  fading  daylight 
to  take  in  every  detail  of  the  mysterious  room,  the  paneling, 
which  in  this  apartment  alone  was  left  its  own  dark  color, 
seemed  to  take  strange  moving  patterns  as  she  looked;  the 
musty,  close  air  seemed  to  choke  her;  and  faint  creakings  and 
meanings,  either  in  the  ancient  wood- work  or  the  loose-hang- 
ing ivy  outside,  grew  in  her  listening  ears  to  a  murmur  as  of 
a  voice  trying  to  speak,  and  miserably  failing  to  make  itself 
understood.  She  was  roused  by  a  shrill  cry,  and  found  Lucy, 
whose  fear  for  her  mistress  had  overcome  her  fear  of  this  deso- 
late room,  shaking  her  by  the  arm  and  pulling  her  toward  the 
door. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia,  do  come  out — do  come  out!  You're  go- 
ing to  faint;  I'm  sure  you  are.  It's  all  this  horrid  room — 
this  horrid  house.  Oh,  do  come  and  write,  and  tell  master 
it's  not  a  fit  place  for  Christians  to  come  to,  and  he'd  never 
prosper  if  he  was  to  come  here,  and  nor  wouldn't  none  of  us, 
I'm  positive.  Do  come,  Miss  Olivia,  there's  a  dear.  It's  fit 
to  choke  one  in  here,  what  with  the  rats  and  the  damp,  that 
it  is.  And  if  we  was  to  stay  here  long  enough  we'd  see  ghosts, 
I  know." 

Olivia  laughed.  No  phantom  had  terrors  for  her,  however 
strong  an  impression  half-guessed  realities  might  make  upon 
her  youthful  imagination. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Lucy,"  she  said,  encouragingly.  "  We'll 
soon  frighten  the  ghosts  away  by  letting  a  little  fresh  air  into 
these  musty  rooms.  Here,  help  me." 

Half  reassured  by  her  resonant  voice,  the  maid  accompanied 
her  to  the  larger  window,  still  clinging  to  her  arm,  but  more 
for  companionship  than  with  the  idea  of  affording  support  to 
her  mistress,  who  had  recovered  her  self-command.  Together 
they  succeeded  in  throwing  open  both  windows  to  their  full 
extent,  not,  however,  accomplishing  this  without  a  shriek  from 
Lucy,  as  a  great  bird  flew  out  of  the  hanging  ivy  and  almost 
flapped  against  their  faces  in  his  confusion  at  this  unusual  dis- 
turbance. They  both  felt  a  sense  of  relief  as  the  keen  but 
fresh  outside  air  blew  into  the  long-closed  room,  dispersing  the 
moldy,  musty  smell  of  damp  hangings  and  decaying  wood. 
Even  the  old  woman,  who  had  stood  all  this  time  in  the  door- 
way, apparently  engaged  in  muttering  incantations  over  her 
tallow-dip,  but  really  transfixed  by  this  audacity  of  young 
blood,  drew  a  long  breath  as  the  rush  of  fresh  air  reached  her, 
and  gathered  courage  to  ask  "  what  they  were  after  doin* 
now?" 


20  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  We're  '  after*  ransacking  every  corner  of  this  old  ghost 
run,  turning  it  upside  down  and  inside  out,  and  chasing  away 
the  last  shadow  of  a  bogey/'  answered  Olivia,  cheerily. 
"  Here's  another  room  to  look  into." 

Crossing  the  room  with  a  light  step,  she  opened  the  door  of 
the  second  of  the  closed-up  apartments.  This  chamber  also 
had  escaped  the  dismantling  of  the  rest  of  the  house,  but  it 
contained  very  little  that  would  have  been  worth  taking  away. 
It  was  lighted  by  three  small  windows,  all  much  broken,  and 
ail  hung  with  limp  rags  which  had  once  been  muslin  curtains, 
gayly  tied  up  with  blue  ribbons,  which  were  now  almost  color- 
less with  dust  and  damp.  The  floor  was  covered  with  matting, 
which  smelled  like  damp  straw,  and  had  evidently  afforded 
many  a  meal  to  the  rats  now  scurrying  behind  the  wood-work, 
which  in  this  room  was  much  decayed  and  in  far  from  good 
repair.  A  plain  deal  table,  from  which  the  cover  had  been  re- 
moved; two  limp  wicker-chairs  with  ragged  cushions;  an 
empty  bird-cage;  a  fanciful  wicker  kennel  for  a  lap-dog;  these 
were  nearly  all  that  were  left  of  the  furniture.  Olivia  in- 
spected everything  with  eager  but  silent  interest,  and  then 
turned  suddenly  to  Sarah  Wall,  who  had  again  followed  them 
as  far  as  the  door,  preferring  even  the  eerie  passage  of  the  bed- 
room to  solitude  outside. 

"  Who  lived  in  these  rooms  last?"  she  asked. 

But  the  candle  nearly  fell  from  Mrs.  Wall's  hand,  as,  for  all 
answer,  she  withdrew  into  the  desolation  of  the  deserted  bed- 
room rather  than  face  the  eager  questioner  again. 

Olivia  was  not  to  be  put  off  so  easily.  She  followed  pre- 
cipitately, and,  changing  the  form  of  her  attack,  said : 

"  How  long  is  it  since  these  rooms  were  shut  up,  Mrs. 
Wall?" 

The  guide's  eyes  shifted  about,  refusing  to  meet  those  of 
the  young  girl. 

"  Twea  year;  same  as  rest  o'  t"  house,"  she  answered,  in  a 
grumbling  tone. 

"  Only  two  years!  It  wasn't  shut  up  long  before  the  family 
went  away,  then?"  said  Olivia,  incredulously. 

"  Not  as  Ah  knaws  on,"  answered  Sarah  Wall. 

Miss  Denison  hated  an  untruth  with  the  impetuous  loathing 
of  an  honest  nature.  She  would  have  liked  to  shake  this 
wretched  old  woman,  who  would  not  be  candid  on  a  subject 
which  could  not  be  of  the  slightest  importance  to  her.  Per- 
haps her  companion  got  an  inkling  of  this  inclination,  for  she 
turned  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  along  the  narrow  passage  which 
led  from  the  bedroom  to  the  body  of  the  house.  Olivia  did 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  21 

not  at  once  follow  her.  With  a  curious  reluctance,  whether 
reverence  for  a  dead  past  whose  relics  she  was  disturbing,  or 
fear  of  some  shock  which  its  revelations  might  bring  her,  she 
scarcely  knew,  the  girl  picked  up  one  of  the  dust-begrimed 
novels,  and  looked  at  the  title-page.  But  there  was  nothing 
written  on  it.  She  opened  three  or  four  more  of  the  novels 
with  the  same  result.  By  this  time  it  was  growing  so  dark 
that  she  had  to  hasten  her  movements  for  fear  that  when  at 
last  a  clew  was  found  she  might  be  unable  to  distinguish  the 
letters.  Having  in  vain  examined  every  book  upon  the  table, 
she  continued  to  explore  until  she  found,  on  a  small  hanging 
book-shelf  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  room,  a  little  pile  of 
devotional  works  —  Bible,  hymn-book,  Bogatsky's  "Golden 
Treasury,"  a  tiny  "  Daily  Portion,"  and  a  prayer-book.  This 
last  was  on  the  top  of  all.  As  Olivia  opened  it,  there  fell  to 
the  floor  tiny  dried  scraps  of  flowers  and  fern.  Turning  to 
the  fly-leaf,  and  carrying  the  book  in  haste  to  the  window,  she 
found  these  words,  written  in  a  round,  school-boy  hand: 

"  Ellen  Mitchell,  from  her  affectionate  brother  Ned."  And 
a  date  of  eighteen  years  back. 

Olivia  replaced  the  prayer-book  on  the  shelf,  and  left  the  old 
room  without  further  delay,  followed  by  Lucy,  who  had  re- 
mained close  at  hand,  but  discreetly  silent,  during  these  in- 
vestigations. 

When  they  reached  the  outer  end  of  the  passage,  Olivia 
glanced  with  some  curiosity  at  the  old  door  she  had  so  roughly 
broken  down,  and  as  she  did  so,  some  letters  written  in  pencil 
high  on  the  upper  panel  caught  her  eye.  With  difficulty  she 
made  out  a  date  in  July  ten  years  before. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "  whether  that  is  the  date  on 
which  the  rooms  were  locked  up.  If  so,  it  was  eight  years  be- 
fore the  last  people  left  the  house,  I  know.  And  their  name 
was  Mitchell.  Who  can  I  ask  to  tell  me  the  story?" 

And  having  forgotten  cold,  fatigue,  and  hunger  in  the  in- 
terest of  her  discoveries,  Olivia  Denison  made  her  way  slowly 
down  to  the  ground-floor  again,  where  she  caught  Mrs.  Wall 
in  the  act  of  slipping  out  of  the  front  door. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  estimable  Sarah  Wall  was,  as  she  herself  would  have 
said,  "  not  in  the  best  of  tempers,"  at  being  intercepted  in 
her  proposed  flight. 

"  Ah  thowt  ye'd  got  all  ye  wanted/*  she  grumbled,  as 
Olivia  Denison  followed  her  out  on  to  the  doorstep  and  asked 


22  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

her  where  she  was  going.     "  Ah  wur  goin'  whoam  to  get  a 
coop  o'  tea,  for  Ah'm  fair  clemmed.  " 

You  thought  we'd  got  all  we  wanted!"  said  Olivia,  iron- 
ically. "  Why,  we've  got  nothing  at  all — not  even  a  chair  to 
sit  on.  I  think,  if  you  have  tea  going  at  your  cottage,  you 
might  ask  us  to  come  and  have  some." 

"  Hey,  that  ye  might,  Sally/'  said  a  gruff  voice,  which 
Olivia  had  now  learned  to  recognize  as  that  of  a  friend. 

Turning,  she  saw  Mat  Oldshaw,  his  blushes,  if  he  were  still 
blushing,  invisible  in  the  darkness,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  mounting  guard  over  the  luggage,  which  he  had  piled 
together. 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  change  to  melting 
gratitude,  "  you  haven't  been  waiting  out  here  in  the  cold  all 
this  time  for  us,  have  you?" 

"  Weel,  miss,"  said  Mat,  laughing  uneasily,  and  shifting 
from  one  heavy  foot  to  the  other,  ' '  t'  door  was  shut,  an'  Ah 
couldn't  get  in. " 

And,  to  put  an  end  to  conversation,  which  was  an  art 
in  which  he  felt  he  did  not  shine,  the  young  fellow  seized  the 
two  smallest  trunks  and  carried  them  straight  into  the  big 
farm  living-room,  whistling  a  lively  tune  as  he  did  so.  Olivia 
stood  back  quite  silently  while  he  fetched  in  the  rest  of  the 
luggage  in  the  same  way,  and  then  stood  looking  at  it  dubi- 
ously by  the  light  of  Mrs.  Wall's  caudle. 

"  It  bean't  naw  good  onfastenin'  t'  cords,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  for  they  won't  stay  in  here.  An'  Ah  dunno  reightly  what 
to  be  doin'  for  ye  if  yer  goods  bean't  coom." 

He  went  back  again  to  the  front  door  and  looked  out.  Not 
that  he  could  see  anything  of  the  road,  for  the  huge  barn  op- 
posite completely  blocked  the  view  from  this  point.  But  he 
was  a  good  deal  affected  by  the  predicament  in  which  this 
beautiful  lady  and  her  attendant  found  themselves,  and  he  was 
shy  of  meeting  the  lady's  eyes,  being  without  means  of  com- 
forting her.  Suddenly  a  figure  darted  out  from  the  gloom 
under  the  barn  walls,  a  strong  hand  was  laid  upon  the  lad's 
arm,  and,  willy-nilly,  he  was  dragged  down  the  steps  and 
heartily  cuffed  before  he  had  recovered  from  his  first  surprise. 

"  Eh,  feyther,  what  art  doin'  now?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as 
he  had  recovered  breath,  having  speedily  recognized  the  touch 
of  his  parent's  loving  hand. 

"  Eh,  thou  feaul,  thoo  teastrill;  Ah've  got  tha!  Ah  know'd 
wheer  thoo'd  got  to.  This  cooms  o'  followin'  fowk  wha  can't 
keep  off  t'  lasses.  Coom  whoam;  coom  tha  whoam,  and  if 
iwer  Ah  catch  tha  again  a-slitherin'  about  yon  house,  Ahll 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  23 

turn  ye  oot  o*  ma  house,  and  oot  o'  ma  farm,  as  if  ye  wur 
nobbut  a  plow-boy,  thet  Ah  will!" 

Mat  wriggled  and  writhed  till  he  got  loose  from  his  father's 
grasp,  and  slinking  back  a  step  or  two,  he  called  out,  not 
loudly  or  defiantly,  but  with  the  same  rough  kindliness  which 
he  had  shown  from  the  first  toward  the  friendly  girls: 

"Now  mind,  Sally,  thou  maun  mash  t' best  coop  o'  tea 
thoo  can  for  t'  leddies." 

John  Oldshaw  turned  round  at  these  words,  and  addressed 
the  old  woman  in  a  thick  and  angry  voice. 

"  Sarah  Wall,  get  back  to  tha  whoam  an*  tha  own  business. 
An*  if  thoo  canna  keep  tha  owd  fingers  oot  o'  other  fowks' 
affairs,  tha  needna  coom  oop  oor  way  o'  Soondays  for  tj 
broaken  meat.  So  now  thoo  knaws." 

And,  with  a  jerk  of  the  head  to  his  son  to  intimate  that 
Mat  could  go  on  in  front  and  he  would  follow,  the  farmer 
stamped  slowly  and  heavily  away  down  the  yard. 

His  coarse  unkindness  affected  the  three  women  differently. 
Little  Lucy  began  to  whimper  and  to  sob  out  indignant  male- 
dictions upon  "  the  ol-ol-old  brute;"  Mrs.  Wall,  after  drop- 
ping half  a  dozen  frightened  courtesies,  manifested  a  great 
eagerness  to  go;  Olivia  drew  herself  up  and  became  very  stern 
and  grave. 

"  You  need  not  mind  what  that  man  says,  Mrs.  Wall,"  she 
said,  in  a  firm,  quiet  voice.  "  You  may  be  very  sure  that  any 
kindness  you  do  us  will  be  amply  repaid.  And  as  for  the 
broken  meat  he  talks  about,  if  you  will  really  lose  that  by  let- 
ting us  rest  a  little  while  in  your  cottage  and  giving  us  a  cup 
of  tea,  I  can  promise  you  a  good  dinner  every  Sunday  while 
my  father  lives  here. " 

But  Mrs.  Wall  was  too  far  timorous  and  cautious  a  person 
to  risk  the  substantial  reality  of  broken  meat  on  Sundays  from 
the  great  man  of  the  village  for  the  flimsy  vision  of  a  good 
dinner  from  a  total  stranger.  She  thrust  her  flickering  tal- 
low-candle into  Lucy's  hands,  and  began  to  tie  her  wispy  bon- 
net-strings with  a  resolute  air. 

"  I'll  leave  t'  candle,"  she  said,  as  if  making  a  great  and 
generous  concession;  "  an*  that's  a'  I  can  do  for  ye.  For  I've 
nowt  in  my  place  I  could  set  afore  a  leddy;  an'  as  for  tea,  the 
bit  fire  I  left  will  be  out  by  this  time." 

"  But  I  can  light  your  fire  again  for  you,  and  boil  your 
kettle  in  two  twos,"  burst  in  Lucy.  "  And  we've  brought 
some  tea  with  us." 

Her  young  mistress  put  a  light  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Never  mind,  Lucy,"  she  said,  quietly.     "If  Mrs.  Wall 


24  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

doesn't  care  for  us  to  go  to  her  cottage  we  will  not  trouble 
her." 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  brightened,  for  at  the  end  of  the  long 
barn  she  descried  in  the  dusk  the  figure  of  the  gentleman  who 
had  come  to  their  aid  that  afternoon  and  then  left  them  with 
such  unaccountable  suddenness.  Lucy  saw  him  too,  and  be- 
ing more  demonstrative  than  her  mistress,  she  gave  vent  to 
her  delight  in  words. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Wall,  ma'am;  you  needn't  go  for  to  put  your- 
self out,  for  there's  better  folks  than  you  coming  along,  that 
are  a  deal  more  obliging  than  ever  you'd  be,  and  that  have 
some  Christian  kindness  in  them,  which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  for  you.  Ugh,  you  grumpy  old  woman,  you!" 

"  Hush,  Lucy,"  said  her  mistress,  in  gentle  rebuke;  "  the 
gentleman  will  hear  you.  And  I  don't  suppose  he  is  coming 
here  at  all,"  she  added,  reluctantly,  as  the  figure  they  had 
both  so  quickly  recognized  disappeared  again  in  the  gloom. 

"What  gentleman?  What  gentleman?"  asked  the  old 
woman,  shrilly. 

"  How  should  we  know,  when  we're  strangers  here?"  re- 
torted Lucy,  who,  now  that  her  tongue  was  once  loosened,  was 
delighted  to  have  what  she  afterward  called  "  a  go-in  "  at 
their  disobliging  guide.  "  But  he  was  a  real  gentleman;  not 
like  your  pig-faced  friend  in  the  corduroy  trousers  that  you're 
so  mighty  civil  to;  and  he  wears  knickerbockers  and  gaiters 
and  a  cap  over  his  eyes,  if  that  is  anything  you  can  tell  him 
by." 

Apparently  it  was,  for  Sarah  gave  a  step  back  in  horror, 
and  ejaculated,  "  Mercy  on  us!"  two  or  three  times,  as  if  too 
much  shocked  for  further  speech. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Olivia,  rather  sharply,  re- 
membering the  stranger's  warning  that  she  would  hear  no  good 
of  him  from  Sarah  Wall,  and  curious  to  learn  the  reason. 
"  If  you  know  who  the  gentleman  is,  tell  me  his  name.  And 
what  do  you  know  against  him?"  she  added,  indiscreetly. 

Mrs.  Wall,  though  not  brilliantly  intelligent,  had  the  splen- 
did gift  of  reticence  where  she  thought  that  things  might  "  go 
round. "  She  only  shook  her  head,  therefore,  and  muttered 
something  about  getting  herself  into  trouble  and  desiring  to 
be  allowed  to  go  home. 

"  Well,  just  tell  me  first  who  he  is,  then,  and  you  shall  go 
at  once,"  said  Olivia,  persuasively. 

The  old  woman,  writhing  nervously  under  the  clasp  of  Miss 
Denison's  hand,  evidently  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  a  means 
of  getting  free  while  committing  herself  as  little  as  possible. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  25 

The  reluctant  words  which  at  last  came  out  were  not  very  well 
chosen,  however. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  this,  then/'  she  croaked,  in  a  broken  whisper, 
peering  round  with  her  sunken  eyes  as  if  to  be  sure  the  trea- 
sonable communication  she  was  making  was  not  overheard  by 
the  person  concerned.  "  Yon  gentleman,  as  ye  call  him,  is 
not  fit  company  for  young  ladies.  And  others  have  found  it 
oot  to  their  cost — so  fowk  say,"  she  added,  hastily.  Then,  as 
Olivia  released  her  arm  and  she  tottered  away  over  the  hard 
ground,  she  looked  back  to  add,  in  a  querulous  and  anxious 
tone,  "  But  don't  ye  tak'  it  frae  me,  mind.  I  nobbut  told  ye 
what  I've  heeard  say." 

Olivia  turned  back  toward  the  open  door  of  the  dreary 
house,  feeling  beyond  measure  miserable  and  disconsolate. 
The  dimly  seen  figure  of  her  friend  of  the  afternoon  had  dis- 
appeared; the  disobliging  old  woman  who  was  at  least  a  fellow- 
creature,  was  rapidly  hobbling  out  of  sight;  while  the  words 
which  had  just,  with  so  much  difficulty,  been  forced  out  of 
her,  seemed  in  the  hag's  mouth  to  have  acquired  the  chilling 
significance  of  a  curse.  Lucy  felt  this  too,  for  coming  closer 
to  her  mistress,  she  half  whispered: 

"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia,  if  there  was  really  such  things  as  witches, 
I  should  believe  that  old  crone  was  one. " 

"  Nonsense!  Come  inside,  and  let  us  see  what's  to  be 
done." 

"  Oh,  we're  not  going  in  again — all  by  ourselves!  Oh, 
miss,  just  think  of  that  upstairs  room!"  wailed  the  poor  girl. 

"  Now,  look  here,  Lucy,  you  mustn't  be  ridiculous.  We're 
in  a  dreadful  plight,  and  we've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it.  If 
you  give  way  to  silly  fancies  instead  of  doing  your  best  to  help 
me,  I  shall  have  to  take  you  to  that  inn  at  the  corner  and 
leave  you  there  while  I  come  back  and  shift  for  myself  as  best 
lean." 

Lucy,  who  loved  her  young  mistress,  grew  sober  and  good 
immediately. 

"  You  know  I'll  do  what  I  can,  Miss  Olivia,"  she  said,  sup- 
pressing a  sob  of  alarm  as  a  dull  sound,  apparently  from  the 
barn  opposite,  reached  their  ears. 

Olivia  listened.     The  sound  was  repeated. 

"  It  sounds  like  some  person  chopping  wood,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  I  dare  say,  now  the  place  is  unin- 
habited, the  villagers  take  what  liberties  they  like  with  it,  and 
use  the  barns  and  sheds  to  store  their  own  wood  and  hay  and 
things  in.  Now,  come  in  and  let  us  undo  some  of  the  trunks 
before  the  candle  goes  out. 


26  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

With  most  reluctant  feet,  but  without  another  word  of  re- 
monstrance, Lucy  followed  her  young  mistress.  Olivia,  with 
resolute  steps  aud  a  mouth  set  with  an  expression  which  said 
to  the  phantoms  of  the  old  house,  '"  Come  on  if  you  dare!'* 
re-entered  the  hall,  and  kneeling  down  before  a  trunk  which 
had  been  placed  there,  attacked  the  cord  round  it  with  inex- 
pert but  strong  fingers.  They  had  got  it  open,  and  were  con- 
gratulating themselves  that  in  this,  the  first  trunk  unpacked, 
were  caudles,  tea,  and  a  little  spirit-lamp,  when,  suddenly, 
there  fell  upon  their  ears  a  noise  which  even  to  the  brave- 
spirited  Olivia  was,  in  a  lonely,  empty  house,  undeniably  alarm- 
ing. It  came  from  the  long  living-room  where  most  of  their 
luggage  lay,  and  was  as  of  some  heavy  body  falling  with  a 
crash  on  to  the  floor. 

Olivia  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"  I  opened  one  of  the  windows/'  she  said,  "  and  forgot  to 
shut  it.  Some  one  has  got  in!  No,  don't  scream!" 

tShe  clapped  her  hand  on  Lucy's  mouth  and  reduced  the 
threatened  shriek  to  a  moan;  then,  the  noise  having  by  this 
time  ceased,  she  turned,  heedless  of  the  maid's  whispered  sup- 
plications, to  the  door  of  the  long  room.  The  lock  was  stiff 
with  rust  and  the  handle  difficult  to  turn;  so  that,  perhaps 
not  much  against  her  will,  she  left  the  intruder,  if  intruder  it 
was,  time  to  escape.  But  there  was  no  fresh  sound,  and  the 
young  girl's  brave  heart  fluttered  a  little  with  the  fear  that 
perhaps,  on  opening  the  door,  she  would  come  face  to  face 
with  a  defiant  marauder.  At  last  the  door  opened.  It  was 
dark  by  this  time;  through  the  opened  shutters  of  the  four 
windows  came  only  just  enough  light  to  show  that  the  trunks, 
piled  up  on  the  bare  floor,  had  at  least  not  been  removed. 
The  air  blew  in,  very  keen  and  cold,  through  the  one  open 
window,  which  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  nearest  to 
the  fire-place. 

"  Is  anybody  there?"  asked  Olivia,  scarcely  without  a 
tremor. 

Her  voice  echoed  without  reply  in  the  desolate  apartment. 

She  held  up  the  candle  and  advanced  slowly,  examining 
every  gloomy  corner.  No  one  was  there;  no  trace  of  any  one 
having  been  there  until,  as  she  reached  the  other  end,  her 
glance  fell  on  some  dark  object  lying  close  under  the  open 
window.  At  this  sight  Lucy  could  not  suppress  the  long- 
stifled  scream,  and  it  was  not  until  her  mistress  pouncing 
down  upon  the  mysterious  thing,  revealed  the  fact  that  it  was 
only  a  couple  of  logs  and  a  bundle  of  sticks,  neatly  tied  to- 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  27 

getherwith  a  piece  of  string,  that  she  found  enough  relief  from 
terror  to  burst  into  tears. 

"Who's  the  benevolent  burglar,  I  wonder/' cried  Olivia, 
her  spirits  rising  instantly  at  the  discovery  of  the  little  anony- 
mous act  of  kindness. 

She  ran  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  There  was  no  one 
to  be  seen;  but  on  the  window-ledge  lay  a  box  of  cigar-lights. 

"  The  mysterious  stranger  again!"  she  said  to  herself. 
Then  turning  to  the  maid,  said:  "  Now,  Lucy,  make  a  fire  as 
fast  as  you  can.  There  are  some  newspapers  with  the  rugs. 
Here  are  sticks  and  logs  and  matches.  We  shall  feel  different 
creatures  when  we  are  once  warm. " 

She  shut  down  the  window  and  boiled  some  water  with  her 
little  spirit-lamp;  while  Lucy,  with  cunning  hands,  made  in 
the  huge  rusty  grate  a  fire  which  was  soon  roaring  up  the 
chimney,  and  pouring  its  bright  warm  light  on  floor  and  wall 
and  ceiling.  The  spirits  both  of  mistress  and  maid  began  to 
rise  a  little  as  they  drew  up  one  of  the  smaller  trunks  to  the 
fire,  and  made  a  frugal  meal  of  biscuits  and  milkless  tea. 

"  It  is  a  horrid  place,  though,  Miss  Olivia,"  said  Lucy,  who 
had  been  chilled  to  the  heart  by  Sarah  Wall's  utterances,  and 
did  not  feel  wholly  sure  that  she  herself  had  not  been  be- 
witched by  that  uncanny  person. 

"  Oh,  1  suppose  it  might  have  been  worse.  They  might 
have  thrown  bricks  at  us,"  said  her  mistress;  "  and  remem- 
ber that  two  people  have  already  been  very  kind  to  us." 

"  Perhaps  the  young  farmer-man  only  took  to  us  just  out 
of  aggravation  because  his  father  didn't,"  suggested  Lucy, 
who  was  a  well-brought-up  girl,  and  affected  to  take  cynical 
views  of  young  men.  "  And  as  for  the  gentleman,  why,  the 
old  woman  as  good  as  said  decent  folk  had  better  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him." 

"  But  you  surely  wouldn't  take  that  miserable  old  woman's 
word  for  it?" 

"  No,  but  I'd  take  his  own  face,  miss.  I  watched  him 
when  the  old  farmer  was  going  on  so;  and,  my  gracious!  I 
never  see  such  a  black  look  on  any  one's  face  before.  He 
seemed  to  grow  all  dark  and  purple-looking,  and  his  eyes  were 
quite  red-like.  It  was  just  like  as  if  he'd  have  knocked  the 
other  man  down,  miss,  that  it  was. " 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  thought  any  the  worse 
of  him  if  he  had." 

"  Oh,  miss,  it's  an  evil  face.  And  I'm  never  deceived  about 
faces.  I  said,  first  time  I  saw  her,  that  nursery-maid  Mrs. 


28  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEE. 

Denison  sent  away  without  a  character  was  no  good.  And 
then  that  under-gardener — " 

"  You  mustn't  let  your  prejudices  run  away  with  you. 
Judge  people  by  their  actions;  not  their  looks.  Now,  I  saw 
something  quite  different  in  that  gentleman's  face,  and  we 
can't  both  be  right.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  looked  like  a 
man  who  had  had  a  very  hard  life  and  a  great  deal  of  trouble^ 
as  if  he  had  done  nothing  but  struggle,  struggle  with — I  don't 
know  exactly  with  what;  poverty,  perhaps,  or  perhaps  with  a 
violent  temper,  or — " 

She  stopped,  and  stared  into  the  fire,  having  ceased  to  re- 
member that  she  was  carrying  on  a  conversation.  Her  wan- 
dering thoughts,  however,  soon  took  a  practical  turn  again. 
"  The  cabman!"  she  cried,  starting  up  tragically;  "  I  never 
paid  him. " 

She  was  instinctively  turning  toward  the  door,  haunted  by 
an  alarming  sum  in  addition  of  innumerable  hours  at  sixpence 
every  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  Lucy's  voice,  in  tones  of  great 
shrewdness,  stopped  her. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  knowingly; 
"he's  gone  away  long  ago.  If  this  was  a  place  where  cabmen 
would  wait  for  their  fares  for  two  hours  without  so  much  as 
knocking  at  the  door,  we  might  think  ourselves  in  heaven, 
which  the  other  people  show  us  we're  not. " 

"  Well,  but  who  paid  his  fare,  then?" 

Lucy  began  to  look  not  only  mysterious,  but  rather  alarmed. 
"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia,  perhaps  it's  a  plot  to  get  us  in  to  his  power!" 

They  had  both  come  to  the  same  conclusion  as  to  the  person 
who  paid  the  fare,  but  at  this  point  their  reflections  branched 
off  into  widely  different  channels. 

"  You're  a  little  goose,  Lucy,  and  you've  been  filling  your 
head  with  penny  novels,  I  can  see,"  said  she. 

But  the  obligation  to  a  stranger,  which  she  could  scarcely 
doubt  she  was  under,  troubled  her. 

"It  is  very,  very  awkward  to  be  thrown  out  like  this  in  a 
strange  place  with  nobody  to  go  to  for  help  or  advice,"  she  be- 
gan; when  suddenly  a  light  came  into  her  face,  and  she  sprung 
up  and  ran  to  fetch  her  traveling-bag.  "  I'd  forgotten  all 
about  it!"  she  cried,  as  she  drew  out  a  closed  letter  directed  in 
an  old-fashioned,  pointed,  feminine  hand  to  "  Mrs.  Brander, 
the  Vicarage,  Eishton."  "  The  wife  of  one  of  the  curates  at 
Streatham  knows  the  wife  of  the  vicar  here,  and  gave  me  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  her.  1  will  go  and  call  upon  her  at 
once.  If  she  is  the  least  nice  she  willlielp  us,  and  tell  us  how 
to  treat  with  these  savages. " 


ST.   CIJTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  29 

Olivia  was  fastening  her  mantle,  which  she  had  not  taken 
off,  and  putting  on  her  gloves.  Lucy's  round  face  had  grown 
very  long. 

"  And  must  I  stay  here,  miss,  all  by  myself?"  she  asked, 
dolefully. 

Olivia  looked  at  her  dubiously. 

**  I  would  rather  you  stayed  here,  certainly,  because,  you 
see,  the  furniture  might  come  while  we  were  away/'  she  said 
at  last.  "  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  are  going  to  frighten 
yourself  into  a  fit  at  the  scraping  of  every  mouse — " 

Lucy  drew  herself  up.  She  was  not  really  a  coward,  and 
this  speech  put  her  upon  her  mettle. 

"  I'll  stay,  Miss  Olivia,"  she  said,  resolutely;  adding,  in  a 
milder  voice,  "  You  won't  be  very  long,  will  you?" 

"  Indeed  I  won't,''  answered  her  mistress,  promptly.  "  I 
don't  suppose  it  takes  more  than  five  minutes  to  go  from  one 
end  of  the  village  to  the  other.  We  saw  the  church  from  the 
cab  windows;  it's  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  shall  make  for 
that;  the  vicarage  is  sure  not  to  be  far  off." 

Without  more  delay  Olivia  left  the  house,  taking  the  way  to 
the  right  by  which  they  had  approached  the  house,  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  some  one  belonging  to  the  inn  who  would  direct 
her.  She  was  fortunate  enough  to  come  upon  a  diminutive 
villager,  who,  after  lengthy  interrogation  and  apparent  igno- 
rance as  to  where  "  the  vicarage  "  was,  acknowledged  to  know- 
ing "  where  the  parson  lived." 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  the  house  if  I  give  you  twopence?" 

"  Hey,"  replied  the  small  boy,  promptly. 

He  did  not  start,  however,  until  he  had  taken  an  exhaustive 
survey  of  her,  either  for  identification  in  case  she  should  try  to 
elude  him  at  the  other  end  of  the  journey,  or  to  satisfy  him- 
self whether  she  was  a  person  likely  to  possess  twopence. 

"  Theer's  two  ways,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  Short  way  over  t' 
brook,  an'  oop  t'  steps  and  through  t'  church-yard;  long  way 
by  t' road  an' oop  t' hill." 

"  Go  the  short  way,  then." 

"  Mr.  Midgley,  t'  carpenter,  fell  an'  broak  his  leg  goin'  oop 
theer  this  afternoon.  An'  t'  church-yard  geate's  cloased  by 
now. " 

"  Well,  then,  we'll  go  the  other  way,  of  course." 

The  boy  trudged  along  up  the  road,  which  was  a  continua- 
tion of  that  by  which  they  had  come  to  the  farm,  and  made  no 
attempt  at  conversation  except  in  answer  to  Olivia's  questions. 
She  made  out,  after  much  persevering  pumping,  that  the 
vicar,  Mr.  Brander,  was  much  liked,  and  that  his  wife  was 


30  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

only  a  little  less  popular.  After  this  there  was  a  pause,  which 
was  broken  by  the  boy,  as  they  passed  between  a  plain  stone 
building,  standing  back  from  the  road  on  the  right,  and  a 
group  of  hay  and  straw  stacks,  sheds,  and  farm  buildings  on 
the  left. 

"  That's  Mester  Oldshaw's  farm/*  said  the  boy. 

"  Ugh!"  ejaculated  Olivia  below  her  breath,  hurrying  on 
with  angrily  averted  eyes. 

The  whole  place,  seen  by  the  weak  light  of  the  rising  moon, 
seemed  to  her  to  display  the  repulsive  hideousness  of  its  mas- 
ter. 

After  this  the  road  wound  to  the  left  up  the  hill,  and  they 
passed  a  few  scattered  cottages,  one  of  which  was  the  primitive 
village  post-office. 

"  That  be  t'  parson's  house/'  said  the  boy,  as  they  came  hi 
sight  of  an  irregularly  built  stone  house  standing  high,  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  road,  in  a  well-wooded  garden. 

They  had  to  go  round  this  garden,  and  turn  sharply  to  the 
left  into  a  private  road  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  This  brought 
them  face  to  face  with  the  gates  of  the  little  church-yard, 
while  on  the  left  was  the  front  door  of  the  vicarage,  a  pretty 
building  in  the  Tudor  style,  which,  seen  even  in  the  faint 
moonlight,  had  a  pleasant,  welcoming  air  of  comfort,  peace, 
and  plenty.  Olivia  gave  the  boy  his  twopence,  and  rang  the 
bell  with  a  hopeful  heart.  Everything  seemed  to  promise  well 
for  the  success  of  her  errand.  A  neat  maid  soon  came  to  the 
door,  but  to  Olivia's  inquiry  whether  Mrs.  Brander  were  at 
home  came  the  dispiriting  answer  that  she  was  away.  Miss 
Denison  reflected  a  moment. 

"  Is  Mr.  Brander  at  home?*'  she  then  asked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  is  in.  Will  you  see 
him?" 

"Yes,  if  lean." 

She  followed  the  servant  across  the  wide,  well-formed  hall, 
to  a  door  at  which  the  maid  knocked. 

*'  Come  in,"  said  a  voice,  which  seemed  familiar  to  Olivia. 

"  A  lady  wishes  to  see  you,  sir/'  said  the  servant. 

"  Show  h«r  in  at  once,"  said  the  man's  voice. 

Olivia  drew  back  instead  of  advancing,  as  the  servant  made 
way  for  her  to  enter. 

It  is  Mr.   Brander,  the  clergyman,  I  wish  to  see,"  said 
Olivia,  hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  it's  all  right.  Mr.  Brander  is  a  clergy- 
man," answered  the  maid,  reassuringly. 

Before  another  word  could  pass,  Mr.  Brander  himself,  hear- 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  31 

mg  a  discussion,  came  to  the  door.     Olivia  looked  at  him  in 
some  confusion.     It  was  her  unknown  friend  of  the  afternoon ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OLIVIA'S  momentary  embarrassment  was  at  once  removed 
by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Brander 's  greeting. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brander  is  a  clergyman.  I  hope  you  have  no 
prejudice  against  the  cloth,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand 
with  a  welcoming  smile.  "  It's  not  a  proper  clerical  gar- 
ment, I  confess,"  he  went  on,  as  Olivia's  glance  fell  instinct- 
ively upon  the  old  shooting-coat  he  now  wore;  "  but  I  flatter 
myself  the  collar  saves  it. " 

And  he  pointed  to  his  orthodox  round  collar. 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  said  the  young  girl,  smiling  in  an- 
swer. "  For  instance,  if  I  had  known  this  afternoon  that  you 
were  a  clergyman,  I  should  have  felt  much  more  at  ease  about 
accepting  your  very  kind  services." 

"  Should  you?  Well,  then,  you  are  at  ease  about  it  now. 
Come  in,  and  tell  me  if  there  is  anything  more  I  can  do  for 
you. " 

Olivia  followed  him  into  the  most  charmingly  luxurious 
study  she  had  ever  seen.  Everything  in  it  was  comfortable 
and  handsom*,  in  the  best  modern  taste.  The  doors,  mantel- 
piece, and  paneling  were  of  carved  light  oak,  the  furniture  of 
the  same,  upholstered  in  dark-green  morocco.  There  were 
portieres  and  curtains  of  dark  tapestry,  harmonizing  with 
the  carpet.  The  books,  which  filled  four  large,  handsome  book- 
cases, looked  to  the  connoisseur  too  dainty  to  be  touched  by 
common  fingers.  Evidences  of  a  woman's  presiding  eye  and 
hand  were  there  too,  Olivia  fancied,  in  a  certain  graceful  drap- 
ing of  the  curtains,  which  seemed  to  her  to  betray  neither  the 
upholsterer  nor  the  house-maid;  in  a  tall  bouquet  of  dried  bul- 
rushes and  corn  which  stood  in  one  corner;  and  in  a  small  con- 
servatory, full  of  dark  palms  and  ferns,  into  which  one  of  the 
windows  opened.  Everything  was  well  chosen,  everything 
harmonized  with  everything  else,  except  the  shabbily  dressed 
figure  in  the  center,  with  his  lean,  dark,  worn  face,  and  hun- 
gry black  eyes,  and  the  tattered  volume  he  held  in  his  hand. 
Mr.  Brander  read  the  thought  that  flashed  through  his  guest's 
mind,  and  asked: 

"  Now,  what  is  your  first  impression  of  this  room?" 

"  It  is  very,  very  pretty,"  said  Olivia. 

"  Well,  and  what  else?" 


32  ST.     CUTHBEU'I  «    'iO\',  i,ix. 

"  Some  one  else  had  more  to  do  with  the  arrangement  of  it 
than  you. " 

Olivia  had  never  before  felt  so  perfectly  at  ease  with  a 
stranger — so  able  to  speak  her  passing  thoughts  out  frankly 
and  freely. 

"  Eight,  quite  right.  And  now  let  me  hear  what  sort  of  a 
guess  you  can  make  as  to  the  person  who  had  the  arrangement 
of  if 

"It  was  a  lady.  Perhaps  a  lady  who  has  had  some  art- 
school  training;  but  one  who  can  think  for  herself  a  little  too. 
Not  an  every-day  sort  of  lady,  and  yet  not  eccentric.  One 
whom  you  would  like  to  know,  but  whom  you  might  be  a  little 
afraid  of. " 

By  the  interest  and  pleasure  with  which  Mr.  Brander  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  proceeded  slowly  and  cautiously  with  her  con- 
jectures, Olivia  felt  sure  that  she  was  describing  his  wife,  and 
also  that  she  was  getting  near  the  truth.  But  then  a  look  of 
pain  came  into  his  dark  face,  which  set  her  wondering  whether 
they  had  had  a  severe  quarrel,  whether  there  was  some  serious 
estrangement  between  them,  or  whether  the  trouble  from 
which  he  was  evidently  suffering  was  caused  merely  by  the  ab- 
sence of  the  woman  of  his  heart.  This  singular  clergyman, 
with  his  unconventional  dress  and  manners,  his  worn  face,  and 
his  great  kindness,  was  so  different  from  any  of  the  stiff  curates 
and  unctuous  vicars  she  had  ever  met,  that  he  and  his  sur- 
roundings awoke  in  her  the  liveliest  interest,  even  apart  from 
the  mysterious  warning  of  Sarah  Wall,  and  the  surly  insolence 
shown  toward  him  by  Farmer  Oldshaw.  After  a  short  pause, 
he  said: 

"  Eight  in  every  particular.  Now  we  will  see  if  you  can 
find  the  lady." 

On  the  mantel-piece  was  a  collection  of  photographs,  most 
of  them  of  more  or  less  beautiful  women,  all  handsomely 
framed.  Mr.  Brander  invited  Olivia  to  come  up  and  inspect 
them.  With  another  slight  feeling  of  surprise,  which  she 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  account  for,  she  stepped  on  to 
the  soft  fur  hearth-rug  and  made  a  careful  review  of  the  whole 
gallery.  But  here  she  was  quite  at  a  loss. 

"  I  must  lose  my  character  for  divination/'  she  said  at  last, 
shaking  her  head  as  she  stepped  back.  "  I  don't  see  any  face 
that  1  could  point  out  with  any  certainty." 

"Try." 

She  chose  one.     Mr.  Brander  shook  his  head. 

"  Wrong,"  he  said.     "  You  have  disappointed  me.     What 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB.  33 

made  you  choose  that  one?  Give  me  the  nearest  approach 
you  can  to  a  reason. " 

"  It  looks  a  good,  kind,  sensible  face." 

"  It  belongs  to  a  good,  kind,  sensible  woman — a  Miss  Will- 
iams— a  striking  contrast  to  the  rest  of  her  family, "  he  added 
as  a  comment  to  himself.  "  But  she  is  not  the  lady  who 
chose  the  fittings  of  this  room.  What  do  you  say  to  this  one?" 

It  was  Olivia's  turn  to  be  disappointed,  and  her  face  showed 
her  surprise.  The  photograph  was  that  of  a  woman  who  was 
very  handsome,  and  there  your  reflections  concerning  her  por- 
trait ended.  Mr.  Brander  laughed. 

"  Say  what  you  think  of  it  quite  frankly.  I  sha'n't  be 
offended/ '  he  said. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  face/'  she  answered. 

"  Well,  what  else?" 

"  Nothing  else/'  said  Olivia,  in  desperation.  "  Mrs.  Bran- 
der may  have  every  great  quality  that  ever  adorned  a  woman; 
but  her  face,  like  nearly  all  very  beautiful  ones,  I  think,  ia 
just  beautiful  and  nothing  else. " 

"  Don't  you  see  any  feeling,  imagination,  passion?" 

"  No — no,  indeed,  I  can't." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,  because  she  hasn't  any." 

Olivia  listened  rather  awkwardly,  for  Mr.  Brander  had  un- 
consciously let  a  little  feeling,  a  little  bitterness  sound  in  the 
tones  of  his  own  voice. 

"  Do  you  see  great  common  sense,  shrewdness,  and  a  splen- 
did faculty  for  perceiving  where  the  greatest  advantage  lies  to 
her  and  hers?" 

His  tone  was  still  a  little  bitter,  but  it  was  good-humored 
and  playful  also. 

"  Oh,  no!"  said  Olivia. 

"  Well,  then,  you  should  see  those  qualities,  for  they  are  all 
there." 

"  And  may  I  know  who  this  is?"  asked  Miss  Denison,  to 
turn  the  conversation  from  a  point  on  which  she  had  no  more 
to  say. 

She  was  looking  at  the  companion  frame  to  that  which  con- 
tained the  lady's  portrait.  It  held  the  picture  of  a  strikingly 
handsome  man.  not  far  off  middle  age,  plump,  good-humored, 
and  prosperous-looking,  dressed  in  correct  clerical  costume, 
with  a  beautiful  child  seated  on  his  knee. 

"That  is  my  brother." 

"  Your  brother!" 

All  the  rules  of  courtesy  could  not  avail  to  hide  her  surprise 

then.     A  greater  contrast  could  not  be  imagined  than  that  be- 
2 


34  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK. 

tween  this  worn,  haggard,  ascetic-looking,  shabby  man,  with 
his  unconyentional  dress  and  manner,  and  the  neat,  smiling, 
comfortable-looking  gentleman,  who  seemed  to  beam  from  his 
morocco  frame  on  a  world  where  tithe  wars  were  not.  Then 
a  light  flashed  upon  Olivia,  and  she  gave  Mr.  Brander  a  smile 
of  triumphant  shrewdness. 

"  Now  1  understand  it  all,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  This 
room  is  your  brother's,  and  this  lady  is  not  your  wife,  but  his. " 

Mr.  Brander  laughed  rather  sadly. 

' '  You  think  they  all  *  match  '  with  him  better  than  they 
would  with  me. " 

Olivia  grew  very  red,  and  in  some  confusion  tried  to  explain 
away  this  too  obvious  conclusion.  But  Mr.  Brander  stopped 
her. 

"You  are  quite,  quite  right,"  he  said,  kindly.  "You 
would  be  blind  if  you  couldn't  see  it.  My  sister-in-law  saw  it, 
twelve  years  ago,  when  she  was  wise  enough  to  reject  me  and 
to  take  my  brother.  There,  now  you  see  why  Mrs.  Meredith 
Brander  is  destitute  of  feeling,  imagination,  and  passion,  and 
resplendent  only  in  the  less  lovable  qualities,"  he  went  on, 
mocking  at  himself  good-humoredly.  "  If  she  had  only 
chosen  me,  I  should  have  a  very  different  tale  to  tell,  you  may 
be  sure.'' 

Olivia  was  silent.  The  strange  contrast  between  the  two 
brothers  filled  her  with  pity  for  the  one  who  had  been  kind  to 
her,  and  with  a  sort  of  unreasonable  antagonism  toward  the 
unknown  one  to  whom  fortune  had  been  so  much  more  gener- 
ous. 

"  It  seems  very  hard  on  you,"  she  said,  glancing  at  him 
rather  shyly. 

But  even  as  she  spoke  a  violent  change  came  over  his  face 
which  chilled  and  repelled  her,  and  brought  back  to  her  mind 
with  sudden  and  startling  vividness  the  vague  warning  of  the 
old  woman.  A  flush  of  fierce  and  vindictive  anger,  a  short, 
sharp  struggle  with  himself,  and  then  Mr.  Brander  was  sub- 
dued and  kind  and  courteous  as  ever.  But  this  peep  at  the 
nature  underneath  had  made  an  impression  upon  Olivia  which 
she  could  not  readily  forget;  it  destroyed  the  ease  she  had  felt 
with  him,  and  woke  a  distrust  which  his  instant  return  to  his 
old  kindly  manner  failed  to  remove. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  think  so,"  he  said,  with  a  courte- 
ous smile.  "  At  one  time  I  admit  it  seemed  hard  to  me  too. 
But  I've  been  forced  to  confess  long  ago  that  I  could  not  have 
occupied  the  position  he  fills  either  with  credit  to  myself  or 
satisfaction  to  anybody  else.  "While  as  for  poor  Erelyn,  if  she 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  35 

had  had  the  misfortune  to  take  me  with  my  bad  temper  and 
my  inevitable  hatred  of  order,  instead  of  being  still  handsome, 
amiable,  and  young,  she  would  be  a  haggard  old  woman." 

Remembering,  as  she  did,  the  bitterness  which  he  had  pre- 
viously shown  in  speaking  of  his  sister-in-law,  and  the  fierce 
animosity  which  had  blazed  out  of  his  black  eyes  a  moment 
ago  in  recalling  the  contrast  between  his  brother  and  himself, 
Olivia  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  a  little  hypocrisy 
in  this  ultra-modest  speech,  and  she  made  some  civil  answer  in 
a  tone  which  showed  constraint  in  comparison  with  her  pre- 
vious warm-hearted  and  simple  frankness.  Mr.  Brander  looked 
scrutinizingly  at  her  face,  and  reading  the  change  in  its  ex- 
pression, hastened  to  open  another  and  less  dangerous  subject. 

"  And  here  I  have  been  gossiping  about  my  own  idle  affairs 
all  this  time,  without  once  asking  you  what  you  came  to  see 
me  about,  and  what  I  can  do  for  you. " 

"  I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Mrs.  Brander,"  said 
Olivia,  producing  it.  "  The  wife  of  one  of  the  curates  at 
Streatham,  where  I  live,  or  at  least  where  1  have  been  living," 
she  added,  correcting  herself,  "  knew  Mrs.  Brander  some  years 
ago.  And  she  thought,  as  I  was  coming  here  all  by  myself, 
it  would  be  pleasanter  for  me  to  know  some  one." 

"My  sister-in-law  would  have  helped  you  in  a  hundred 
ways,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  regretfully.  "  She  is  a  very  ener- 
getic woman,  and  loves  to  have  some  active  work  to  do  for 
anybody,  if  there  is  a  little  occasion  to  show  fight  over  it. 
And  there  is  in  your  case;  for  that  unmannerly  old  ruffian, 
John  Oldshaw,  who  made  himself  so  offensive  just  now  at  the 
inn,  wanted  to  have  the  farm  your  father  has  taken,  and  will 
annoy  you  all  in  every  way  he  can  for  spite,  if  I'm  not  mis- 
taken." 

"  If  he  does,  I  shall  get  papa  to  complain  to  Lord  Stanning- 
ton,"  said  Miss  Denison,  with  a  resolute  expression  about  her 
mouth. 

"  Well,  we  must  hope  there  won't  be  any  need  to  do  so. 
Perhaps  your  father  is  a  better  farmer  than  John  Oldshaw,  and 
will  be  able  to  make  him  sing  small." 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  she,  shakingher  head  dolefully; 
"  papa  has  never  been  a  farmer  before.  He's  been  a  banker, 
but  he  never  did  much  banking,  I  think;  and  the  other  part- 
ners bought  him  out  of  the  bank  a  little  while  ago,  and  he  did 
nothing  at  all  for  a  little  while.  But  we  are  not  rich  enough 
to  live  like  that,  so  he  thought  he  should  like  to  try  farming, 
especially  as  my  step-mother  had  been  ordered  to  live  in  the 
country," 


36  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Mr.  Brander  looked  grave.  He  could  not  help  thinking 
that  things  looked  very  black  for  his  pretty  visitor.  A  weak 
and  idle  father,  an  invalid  step-mother,  such  were  the  fancy 
portraits  he  instantly  drew  of  the  pair,  setting  up  as  amateurs 
in  a  business  which  even  experience,  industry,  and  capacity 
can  scarcely  nowadays  make  remunerative!  What  would  be»- 
come  of  the  bright  girl  in  these  circumstances? 

"  How  came  they  to  send  you  down  here  all  by  yourself?" 
he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  My  step-mother — you  know  I  told  you  I  had  a  step-moth- 
er/' she  interpolated,  with  mischievous  meaning — "  has  deli- 
cate health;  that  is  to  say,  her  health  is  too  delicate  for  her 
ever  to  do  anything  she  doesn't  wish  to  do,  and  she  did  not 
wish  to  come  down  to  an  empty  house,  to  have  all  the  worry 
and  trouble  of  filling  it.  So  1  offered  to  do  it.  Home  has 
been  rather  tiresome  lately,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  fun,  and 
besides  that  1  really  wanted  to  be  useful,  and  to  make  things 
as  comfortable  as  I  could  for  poor  papa.  But  I  did  think  she 
would  see  that  the  furniture  was  sent  in  time. " 

"  Yes,  that's  an  awkward  business,  certainly.  We  must 
consider  what  is  best  to  be  done.  And  while  I'm  thinking  it 
over,  you'll  have  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit,  won't  you?" 
said  he,  as  he  touched  the  bell. 

Olivia  did  not  refuse.  She  thought  her  best  chance  of  a 
happy  issue  out  of  her  difficulties  lay  in  trusting  to  the  clergy- 
man, whose  persistent  kindness  was  fast  effacing  the  unpleas- 
ant impression  of  a  few  minutes  before.  She  even  asked  him 
ingenuously  whether  he  thought  she  ought  to  stay  any  longer 
away  from  the  bare  house  where  she  had  left  poor  little  Lucy 
alone  with  the  mice.  Mr.  Brander  quieted  her  conscience  as, 
in  obedience  to  his  order,  the  maid-servant  brought  in  wine 
and  cake,  with  which  he  proceeded  to  serve  the  hungry  girl. 

"  I  shall  let  you  go  in  two  minutes  now,"  he  said.  "  And 
we  won't  let  Lucy  starve  either." 

The  servant  was  still  waiting. 

;'  What  is  it,  Hester?" 

"  Young  Mr.  Williams  has  called,  sir.  He  wishes  to  speak 
to  you  for  a  minute.  I  believe  he  has  a  message. " 

Mr.  Brander's  face  clouded. 

"  Where  is  he?  Ill  go  out  and  speak  to  him,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

But  the  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when  a  voice, 
speaking  in  coarse  and  familiar  tones,  was  heard  outside  the 
door,  heralding  the  approach  of  the  new-comer. 

"  It's  all  right;  it's  only  me.     Suppose  I  can  come  in,  eh?' 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  37 

And,  without  waiting  for  permission,  a  young  man  elbowed 
his  way  past  the  servant,  and  entered  the  room. 

The  word  which  applied  best  to  Mr.  Frederick  Williams, 
including  his  face,  voice,  dress,  and  manner,  was  "  cub."  He 
was  short  and  sandy;  he  had  an  expression  of  mingled  dullness 
and  cunning,  in  which  dullness  predominated;  his  dress,  his 
vocabulary,  and  a  certain  roll  in  his  walk  smacked  of  the 
stable;  and  the  only  conspicuous  quality  he  showed  to  balance 
these  disadvantages  was  a  certain  coarse  good  humor  which 
never  failed  him.  He  was  even  destitute  of  that  very  com- 
mon grace  in  young  men  of  his  type — an  insurmountable  shy- 
ness in  the  presence  of  women  of  refinement.  On  catching 
sight  of  Olivia,  seated  by  the  fire,  eating  cake  with  unmis- 
takable enjoyment,  his  eyes  opened  wide  with  astonishment 
and  boorish  admiration,  which  gave  place  the  next  moment  to 
an  expression  of  intense  shyness  as,  with  a  loud  cough,  he 
affected  to  retreat  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Brander;  ]  didn't  mean  to  inter- 
rupt such  a  pleasant  tete-a-tete,  I'm  sure/' 

But  he  had  no  intention  of  going,  and  Mr.  Brander  asked 
him  rather  curtly  what  he  came  for. 

"  Oh,  my  business  is  of  no  consequence;  it  will  do  any 
time/7  answered  Mr.  Williams,  still  with  his  light  eyes  fixed 
upon  Olivia. 

"  Very  likely.  But  what  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  Brander,  still 
more  shortly. 

"  Oh,  my  father  wants  to  see  you  about  something.  It's 
about  the  church,  I  believe;  your  church,  Saint  Cuthbert's. 
He  wants  to  do  something  for  it,  I  fancy;  says  the  condition 
.jt's  in  is  a  disgrace  to  the  neighborhood/' 

Again  Olivia  saw  on  Mr.  Brander's  face  a  glimpse  of  fierce 
anger,  with  which,  however,  she  this  time  heartily  sympathized. 
Feeling  very  uncomfortable,  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  the  clergyman.  His  face  cleared  as  he  took  it. 

"  Now,  don't  worry  yourself  too  much  about  the  wretched 
furniture,"  he  said,  with  his  old  kindliness.  "As  you  go 
down  the  hill,  mind  you  stop  where  the  roads  cross.  There's 
a  wishing-cap  hangs  on  the  hedge  just  there.  If  you  see  it, 
put  it  on;  if  you  don't,  make  the  motion  of  putting  it  on,  and 
at  the  same  time  say  these  words  just  under  your  breath,  '  I 
wish  that  within  an  hour  I  may  be  installed  very  comforta- 
bly!" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Olivia,  laughing  and  returning  the  press- 
ure of  his  hand  warmly;  "  if  the  wishing-cap  could  oring 


38  ST.   CCTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

that  to  pass,  I  should  begin  to  look  with  respect  on  a  broom* 
stick." 

Mr.  Williams's  face  had  assumed  during  these  two  last 
speeches  an  expression  of  mingled  bewilderment  and  contempt. 
As  the  lady  moved  toward  the  door,  he  followed  without  hav- 
ing once  taken  his  eyes  off  her. 

"  Will  you  be  able  to  find  your  way?"  asked  Mr.  Brander, 
as  he  opened  the  study  door. 

"  I'll  go  with  you;  I'll  escort  you.  Which  way  are  you  go- 
ing?" asked  Mr.  Williams,  eagerly.  "To  the  Hall,  eh?  I 


go  past  it;  don't  I,  Brander?" 
"  I  believe 


so/'  said  the  clergyman,  shortly. 

"  So,  you  see,  you're  not  putting  me  to  any  inconvenience 
at  all,"  went  on  the  young  man. 

4' Oh,  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  said  Miss  Denison,  with  a 
little  laugh  and  a  pretty  turn  of  the  head.  "  In  my  part  of 
the  world  it  is  never  an  inconvenience  to  see  a  lady  home. " 

In  the  meantime  they  had  all  crossed  the  hall  and  arrived  at 
the  front  door,  where  Mr.  Brander,  with  a  reluctant  frown  at 
his  male  visitor,  again  shook  hands  warmly  with  Olivia,  and 
told  her  not  to  lose  heart.  He  watched  the  ill-assorted  pair 
as  they  went  down  the  lane  until  they  turned  into  the  high- 
road. Until  they  reached  this  point  they  proceeded  in  silence, 
but  as  soon  as  they  began  to  descend  the  hill,  the  young  man 
found  voice  after  his  snub. 

"  You're  deuced  sharp  on  a  fellow,"  he  said,  then,  in  a  con- 
ciliatory tone.  "  It  wasn't  my  fault  that  1  turned  up  when 
the  parson  was  making  sheeps'  eyes  at  you." 

"  If  1  am  to  put  up  with  your  society  until  I  reach  the  Hall 
gates,  I  really  must  ask  you  to  abstain  from  making  offensive 
remarks,"  said  Olivia,  icily. 

"  Offensive!  Oh,  all  right.  But  I  warn  you  that  parson 
chap  is  a  deal  more  likely  to  be  offensive  than  I  am.  By  Jove!" 
he  continued,  after  a  freezing  pause;  "  if  you  weren't  such  a 
pretty  girl,  I'm  hanged  if  I'd  go  a  step  further  with  you, 
after  your  rudeness. " 

"  In  your  own  choice  language, '  I'm  hanged  if  you  shall,' ' 
answered  Miss  Denison,  with  spirit. 

Before  the  astonished  young  man  could  recover  his  speech, 
the  girl  had  flown  down  the  hill  like  an  arrow  with  the  wind. 
He  had  admired  her  before;  for  this  display  of  spirit  he  felt 
that  he  adored  her.  At  this  point  the  road  made  a  circuitous 
bend  which  could  be  cut  off  by  one  familiar  with  the  place  by 
crossing  the  fields.  Fred  Williams  was  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  in  a  moment,  and  on  regaining  the  road  he  was  a  few 


ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER.  39 

yards  ahead  of  the  still  flying  lady.  Darting  out  upon  her  as 
she  passed,  he  seized  her  by  the  arm;  and  as  the  attack  was 
unexpected,  she  staggered  for  a  second. 

"  You're  a  splendid  runner,  but  you  can't  beat  me/'  said 
the  young  gentleman,  with  what  was  meant  to  be  an  alluring 
mixture  of  admiration  and  manly  condescension. 

But  it  had  quite  a  wrong  effect  upon  the  lady.  Pausing  one 
moment  to  recover  her  breath  and  her  balance,  she  extricated 
herself  from  his  insolent  clutch  with  a  sudden  athletic  move- 
ment which  flung  him  reeling  into  the  hedge,  where  he  lodged 
amid  a  great  crackling  of  branches. 

"  I  shall  not  require  your  escort  further,  thank  you,"  said 
Miss  Denison  then  imperturbably  to  the  spluttering  swain. 

And  she  walked  on  again  with  a  perfect  and  defiant  security. 
She  had  not  misjudged  her  effect,  for  Mr.  Williams  did  not 
attempt  to  molest  her  again.  Just  as  she  reached  the  farm 
gates,  however,  he  hurried  after  her,  and  without  coming  to 
close  quarters,  said,  maliciously: 

' '  Very  well,  madame.  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  inter- 
fere with  you  again.  But  before  you  take  up  with  Parson 
Brander,  I'd  just  ask  him,  if  I  were  you,  what  has  become  of 
Nellie  Mitchell." 

But  Miss  Denison  walked  through  the  gates  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER    V. 

To  be  able  to  inflict  a  severe  physical  defeat  upon  an  ob- 
trusive admirer  may  be  a  highly  convenient  accomplishment, 
but  the  necessity  for  its  exercise  can  not  but  be  a  humiliating 
experience.  Olivia  Denison  felt  the  hot  tears  rise  to  her  eyes 
as  she  walked  up  through  the  farm-yard  to  the  Hall.  If  only 
one  of  her  own  stalwart  brothers,  Edward  or  Ernest,  were  here 
to  give  this  insolent  cad  the  thrashing  he  deserved!  But  Ed- 
ward was  in  India  with  his  regiment,  and  Ernest  was  tied  to  a 
desk  in  a  solicitor's  office  in  London.  She  must  depend  upon 
her  own  arm  and  own  head  for  her  protection  now;  fortu- 
nately, neither  was  of  the  weakest,  as  she  herself  felt  with  some 
satisfaction.  In  fact,  she  scarcely  knew  yet  what  measure  of 
strength,  both  mental  and  physical,  was  hers;  for  she  had  led 
hitherto  an  easy,  sheltered  life,  idle  in  the  sense  that  all  her 
energy  had  been  spent  in  amusing  herself,  happy  but  for  cer- 
tain uncongenial  elements  at  home. 

Now  there  was  to  be  a  difference.  Without  being  expected 
to  know  how  it  came  to  pass,  Olivia  knew  that  papa  had  grown 


40  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

poorer,  that  he  had  become  frightfully  irritable  about  bills  of 
late,  and  that  various  violent  and  spasmodic  efforts  at  retrench- 
ment, and  papa's  reiterated  declarations  that  he  must  "  do 
something,"  had  culminated  in  the  sale  of  the  beautiful  house 
at  Streatham,  and  in  the  taking  of  Rishton  Hall  Farm. 
There  was  something  not  quite  painful  in  the  feeling  that  she 
would  have  to  "do  something  "  too,  and  in  the  knowledge 
that  she  might  now  be  able  to  turn  her  quickness  of  eye  and 
hand  to  useful  account  in  the  service  of  the  father  whom  she 
adored.  What  would  his  sensitive  nature  do  among  these 
Oldshaws,  and  these  Williamses,  and  these  Walls,  with  the 
most  unpleasant  and  disturbing  rumors  afloat  about  the  very 
clergyman  in  charge?  This  was  the  reflection  which  troubled 
Olivia's  mind  as  she  approached  the  Hall  for  the  second  time, 
and  going  up  the  worn  steps,  let  herself  in  without  any  need 
to  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Lucy!"  she  called,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the  big  room 
on  the  right. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  room  was  deserted,  and  the  fire 
had  burned  low.  Olivia  shivered  as  she  went  in.  The  run 
down  the  hill  had  put  her  in  a  glow;  the  entrance  into  this 
moldy  old  chamber  chilled  her.  She  put  more  wood  on  the 
fire,  and  sat  down  to  await  the  return  of  Lucy,  who,  she  did 
not  doubt,  had  found  the  loneliness  of  the  place  too  much  for 
her  nerves,  and  had  gone  out  to  look  for  her  mistress.  In  a 
few  minutes  Olivia  began  to  long  even  for  the  patter  of  a 
mouse's  feet,  for  the  song  of  a  cricket,  for  any  sign  of  life  in 
the  desolate  old  house,  if  it  were  only  the  sight  of  the  loathely 
black  beetle.  The  spirit  of  the  unknown  Nellie  Mitchell 
seemed  to  hunt  her.  That  girl,  who  had  lived  in  the  house, 
gone  about  her  daily  work  in  this  room,  whose  mementoes  still 
remained  undisturbed  and  undecayed  in  these  deserted  old 
walls,  who  was  she?  What  had  become  of  her?  "  Ask  Mr. 
Brander;"  so  the  odious  Fred  Williams  had  said  with  intensely 
malicious  significance.  Should  she  dare  to  do  this,  and  per- 
haps satisfy  once  for  all  those  doubts  of  her  new  friend  which 
not  only  the  conflicting  opinions  of  the  villagers,  but  certain 
morose  and  repellent  changes  of  expression  on  his  own  face, 
had  instilled  into  her?  She  could  not  decide.  Between  her 
doubts,  her  loneliness,  and  her  sense  of  the  difficulties  of  her 
desolate  situation,  the  poor  girl  was  growing  so  unhappy  that 
when  at  last  she  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  upon  the  ground 
outside,  she  sprung  up  with  a  cry,  and  ran  to  the  door,  ready 
to  force  whoever  it  might  be  to  share  her  vigil. 

On  the  doorstep  she  found  Sarah  Wall,  whom  conscience  or 


ST.  CUTHBEET'S  TOWER.  41 

a  glimmering  notion  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  be  "  in  wi*  t5 
new  fowk,"  had  brought  back  to  make  inquiries. 

"  Hasna'  yer  goods  coom?"  she  asked,  rather  apologetically. 

*'  No;  they  won't  come  to-night  now,"  answered  Miss  Deni- 
son,  with  a  sigh. 

"  There's  summat — a  cart  or  a  wagon  or  summat — at  t'  gate 
now." 

The  hope  was  too  much.  Olivia  gave  a  little  cry.  But 
when,  a  little  later,  there  absolutely  did  drive  up  through  the 
farm-yard,  and  draw  up  at  the  door,  a  small  open  cart  closely 
packed  with  bedroom  furniture,  she  could  scarcely  keep  from 
bursting  into  tears.  For  the  first  few  minutes  she  was  too 
overjoyed  to  perceive  anything  very  singular  in  this  arrival. 
In  the  front  of  the  cart,  beside  the  driver,  sat  two  neat  and 
buxom  country  girls,  who  sprung  down  to  the  ground  with 
much  suppressed  excitement  and  half -hysterical  laughter,  and 
without  any  explanation  of  their  presence,  proceeded,  with  the 
help  of  the  driver,  to  unpack  the  cart,  and  to  carry  the  con- 
tents in-doors  and  upstairs.  Olivia  stood  back  bewildered. 
One  had  a  lantern  and  the  other  a  broom;  neither  would  ad- 
vance a  step  toward  the  old  house  or  up  the  wide  staircase 
without  the  comfort  and  support  of  the  other's  near  presence. 
But  up  they  did  go  at  last,  stifling  little  screams  at  every  other 
step,  and  returning  the  jibes  of  the  driver  with  prompt  re- 
torts. This  young  man  looked  like  a  stable-boy,  or  perhaps 
a  groom  in  undress.  As  he  came  down-stairs  again,  after  hav- 
ing taken  up  a  folding  bedstead,  Olivia  asked  him  where  he 
came  from. 

"  From  t'  vicarage,  miss,"  he  answered,  with  a  stableman's 
salute.  "  Mr.  Vernon  sent  us  down  and  told  us  to  put  t' 
things  in  and  coom  back  as  quick  as  we  could.  T'  lasses  was 
to  clean  oot  a  room  oopstairs  for  ye." 

Sarah  Wall  was  emitting  a  series  of  witch-like  grunts  in  the 
background. 

"  Mr.  Vernon!"  cried  Olivia;  "  Mr.  Vernon  Brander!  Oh, 
how  very  kind  of  him!  How  very  kind!" 

"  He'll  be  down  hisself  just  now,  miss,  I  think,"  continued 
the  lad;  "  he  said  he'd  coona  wi*  t'  second  lot." 

Here  Mrs.  Wall  broke  in  with  a  preliminary  croaking  cough : 

**  Nea,  nea!  He  wunna  coom  a-nigh  this  house.  He 
coomed  here  too  often  in  t'  owd  time.  Nea,  nea!  He  wunna 
coom  inside  noo. " 

"  Howd  tha  tunge,  Sal,"  said  the  lad,  quickly.  "  Thoo'd 
get  thaself  int'  trouble  wi'  t'  vicar  if  he  heerd  tha  prattlin'  so 
o"sbrither." 


42  ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWEK. 

Whereupon  the  old  woman  fell  to  incoherent  mumbling,  and 
the  lad  having  discharged  his  load,  saluted  the  young  lady 
again,  and  drove  away.  With  a  pleasant  sens*  upon  her  that 
help,  ready  and  efficient,  was  indeed  come  at  last,  Olivia  went 
in-doors  again,  and,  directed  by  the  sounds  of  active  sweeping, 
and  at  least  as  active  chattering,  found  her  way  to  the  best 
bedroom  in  this  part  of  the  house,  which  the  exertions  of  the 
two  maids  were  quickly  rendering  habitable.  They  had 
brought  with  them  even  a  large  scuttlef  ul  of  coals  and  a  sup- 
ply of  candles.  In  half  an  hour  the  room  was  swept,  a  fire 
lighted,  carpet  laid  down,  and  two  little  beds  and  a  suite  of 
bedroom  furniture  disposed  to  the  best  advantage. 

"  Mr.  Vernon  said  we  was  only  to  fit  up  one  bedroom, 
ma'am,  as  you'd  be  sure  to  want  your  maid  to  sleep  in  the 
same  room  with  you  in  this  big  empty  house,  miss,"  said  the 
elder  and  more  responsible  of  the  servants. 

"  Yes,  that  is  quite  true,"  answered  Miss  Denison,  promptly. 

"  And  as  soon  as  we  had  done  this  room  we  was  to  sweep 
out  the  big  one  down-stairs." 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Denison,  "you  need  not  do  that.  One 
room  is  plenty  for  us  to  go  on  with,  and  I  don't  wish  you  to 
have  the  trouble  of  doing  any  more." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  trouble,  ma'am.  And  those  were  Mr.  Ver- 
non's  orders.  And  when  the  master  and  missus  is  away,  we 
have  orders  to  do  just  as  Mr.  Vernon  says,  exactly  as  if  he  was 
master.  You  see,  master  thinks  such  a  deal  of  Mr.  Vernon. " 

Here  was  another  instance  of  the  strange  enthusiasm  for  Mr. 
Vernon  Brander  which  he  seemed  to  excite  equally  with  the 
most  violent  antagonism. 

"  I  wouldn't  ha'  come  here  by  myself,  though;  not  if  Mr. 
Vernon  had  ordered  me  ever  so;  no,  and  not  if  master  and 
Mrs.  Brander  had  ordered  me  too,  that  I  wouldn't!"  broke 
in  the  younger  maiden  with  decision. 

Miss  Denison  caught  sight  of  a  severe  frown  and  a  bit  of  ex- 
pressive pantomime  signifying  that  she  was  to  hold  her  tongue, 
from  her  older  and  more  discreet  companion. 

"  How  is  that?"  asked  the  young  lady.  "  Do  you  think 
this  house  is  haunted?" 

"  Of  course  not,  ma'am,"  broke  in  the  elder.  "  Susan, 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  telling  such  silly  stuff. 
Of  course,  ma'am,  when  a  house  lies  empty  some  time  there's 
all  sorts  of  tales  gets  about,  and  I  dare  say  if  you  hadn't  come 
and  taken  it,  in  another  year  there 'd  ha'  been  a  whole  lot  of 
ghost  stories  and  such-like  about  it. " 

Miss  Denison  saw  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  learned  here, 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  43 

so  she  asked  no  more  questions,  but  waited  eagerly  for  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Brander.  At  last,  from  the  position  she  had 
taken  up  on  the  steps  outside  the  front  door,  she  heard  the 
clergyman's  voice  and  the  sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs  at  the 
same  time;  a  few  seconds  later  the  cart,  again  piled  with  furni- 
ture, stopped  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Braader,  springing  down 
from  his  place  beside  the  driver,  held  out  a  helping  hand  to 
the  third  person  in  the  cart,  who  proved  to  be  no  other  than 
Lucy.  Instead  of  jumping  out  with  her  usual  activity,  how- 
ever, the  little  maid  hung  back  in  the  most  nervous  manner, 
and  finally  had  almost  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  vehicle,  uttering 
words  of  protest  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Lucy!  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  her 
young  mistress,  kindly,  perceiving  by  the  light  of  the  lantern 
the  clergyman  carried  that  the  bright  red  color  had  left  the 
girl's  round  cheeks,  and  that  her  eyes  were  distended  with 
some  absorbing  horror. 

"  Nothing,  Miss  Olivia — nothing,"  stammered  she,  faintly. 
"  1 — 1  went  out  to  look  for  you.  I  thought  you  might  have 
lost  your  way — and — and — " 

"  As  Eben  and  I  were  driving  down  the  hill  we  met  her, 
and,  finding  that  she  was  looking  for  you,  Miss  Denison,  I 
made  her  get  up  and  come  on  with  the  luggage. " 

He  did  not  look  at  Lucy,  neither  did  she  look  at  him,  and 
in  the  course  of  the  work  of  unloading  and  furnishing  in  which 
they  now  both  proceeded  to  take  an  active  part,  Olivia  could 
not  help  noticing  the  ashy  paleness  that  came  over  the  maid's 
face,  and  the  way  in  which  she  shrunk  into  herself  if  accident 
brought  her  in  close  contact  with  the  gentleman.  The  in- 
stallation now  went  on  merrily.  To  Olivia's  great  relief  Mr. 
Brander,  contrary  to  Sarah  Wall's  prediction,  showed  not  the 
least  reluctance  to  enter  the  old  house,  but  went  backward 
and  forward  between  the  cart  and  the  big  room  until  there 
was  nothing  left  to  bring  in. 

"  We  haven't  brought  nearly  enough  furniture  to  fill  this 
big  room,  you  know,"  he  explained,  as  he  trundled  in  a  roll 
of  carpet.  "  The  cart  would  only  hold  just  sufficient  to  make 
you  a  little  oasis  at  the  fire-place  end;  but  it's  better  than  the 
bare  boards,  and  to-morrow  we'll  hope  you'll  have  your  own 
things  about  you." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brander,  I  can't  thank  you,"  said  Olivia,  over- 
whelmed. "  You  have  built  a  palace  for  us  in  the  desert;  but 
what  will  the  vicar  say?  lie  will  come  back  and  find  that  you 
have  ransacked  his  beautiful  house  on  behalf  of  two  utter 


44  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

strangers!  I  shall  never  dare  to  look  Mrs.  Brander  in  the  face 
after  taking  part  in  such  a  sacrilege." 

"  My  brother  would  say  nothing  if  I  were  to  turn  all  the 
drawing-room  furniture  out  into  the  church-yard, "  answered 
he,  promptly.  "  You  mustn't  judge  his  temper  by  my  black 
looks.  He  and  I  are  as  different  as  heaven  and — earth.  All 
the  ladies  fall  in  love  with  him." 

"  Then  1  shall  not,"  said  Miss  Denison,  decidedly.  "  I  like 
my  loves  all  to  myself. " 

Mr.  Brander  considered  her  attentively,  with  a  quizzical 
look. 

"  1  should  think  you  would,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  will  be  badly  off  down  here — if  indeed  you  could  be 
badly  off  for  admirers  anywhere.  The  nearest  approach  to  an 
eligible  swain  in  these  parts  is  the  gentleman  who  escorted  you 
home." 

Olivia,  who  was  nailing  up  a  curtain  while  Mr.  Brander  kept 
steady  the  erection  of  a  box  and  a  chair  on  which  she  stood, 
put  down  her  hammer  to  indulge  in  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter. 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it's  all  over  with  the  pretty  little  romance 
you  have  been  building  up  for  me,"  she  said,  looking  down 
with  her  bright  eyes  still  twinkling  with  amusement.  "  I 
pushed  him  into  a  hedge." 

"  At  the  first  blush,  that  does  not  look  promising,  certain- 
ly/' said  Mr.  Brander  with  perfect  gravity,  "  considering  the 
rank  of  the  parties.  For  if  he  had  been  the  clod-hopper  nat- 
ure intended  him  for,  and  you  the  dairy-maid  he  would  have 
liked  you  to  be,  such  a  demonstration  as  that  would  have  been 
the  certain  prelude  to  a  wedding. " 

"  It  wasn't  a  very  lady-like  thing  to  do,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Olivia,  blushing  a  very  becoming  crimson.  ''But  really  he 
was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  be  dealt  with  by  means  of  modest 
little  screams  and  flutterings.  And — well,  the  truth  is,  I  really 
was  so  furiously  angry  that  I  would  have  thrown  him  over  the 
hedge  if  I'd  been  strong  enough." 

"  I  wish  you  belonged  to  my  parish,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  re- 
flectively. "It  is  a  great  pity  such  nerve  and  muscle  should 
be  thrown  away.  Now,  there's  an  old  villain  who  always  nods 
through  the  first  part  of  my  sermon,  and  snores  as  soon  as  I 
grow  a  little  eloquent — and — and  I  daren't  throw  him  into  a 
hedge  myself;  my  motives  might  be  questioned.  But  if  I 
could  only  get  a  fair  and  amiable  parishioner  to  do  it  for  me, 
no  one  could  say  a  word." 

"  You  want  to  make  me  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  Olivia, 
giving  a  vicious  blow  to  the  nail  she  was  driving  in.  "  But 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  45 

you  sha'n't  succeed.     My  father  and  my  two  brothers  think 
that  everything  I  do  is  right." 

"  Ah!  Then  it's  high  time  somebody  turned  up  to  prove 
to  you  that  everything  you  do  is  wrong. " 

Thank  you.     My  step-mother  does  that." 

"  Then  what  do  papa  and  the  brothers  say  to  her?" 

"  If  the  world's  turning  around  depended  on  dear  old  papa's 
saying  a  harsh  word  to  anybody,  the  world  would  stand  still. 
As  for  my  brothers,  especially  Ted,  when  he  is  at  home  break- 
fast is  a  skirmish  with  my  step-mother,  luncheon  is  a  brisk  en- 
gagement, and  dinner  a  hard-fought  battle.  They  are  alwaya 
ordering  each  other  out  of  the  room,  and  it's  quite  a  rare  thing 
for  them  both  to  sit  out  a  meal  at  the  same  table." 

"  The  fault  is  not  quite  all  on  one  side,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  When  poor  Ted  is  away  life  is  not 
very  comfortable,  but  at  least  it  is  not  volcanic." 

"  Curious  that  the  common  or  garden  step-mother,  wher- 
ever found,  should  always  present  the  same  characteristics. 
She  has  children  of  her  own,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  two." 

"  You  don't  love  them — I  perceive  by  your  tone." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  them,  and  then  say  whether  anybody 
could." 

"  I  think  my  professional  ministrations  are  wanted  here. 
Where  is  your  Christian  charity?" 

Olivia  turned  round  to  look  down  upon  him  with  the  most 
earnest  gravity. 

"  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  the  same  question 
when  Regie  gets  caressed  for  his  vivacity  in  cutting  a  slit  in 
your  umbrella,  and  when  you  see  Beatrice  consoled  with  an 
orange  for  some  impertinence  for  which  she  ought  to  have  her 
ears  boxed." 

"  And  it's  all  the  fault  of  the  step-mother?" 

"Yes,  all." 

"  Poor  lady;  I  am  beginning  to  feel  the  deepest  interest  in 
her.  No  doubt  she  was  a  perfectly  amiable  and  harmless  per- 
son before  this  unhappy  metamorphosis." 

"  Yes;  she  was  our  governess — a  most  excellent  woman  and 
very  strict  with  us." 

"  I  must  see  what  can  be  done  for  her.  I  have  a  sermon 
that  will  just  suit  her,  I  think;  one  that  hasn't  done  duty  for 
a  long  time. " 

"It  will  be  of  no  use.  When  she  was  our  governess  she 
never  missed  church;  now  she's  our  step-mother  she  never 
goes." 


46  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWE*. 

The  curtains  were  by  this  time  hung;  the  two  maids  from 
the  vicarage,  after  helping  Lucy  to  give  the  last  touches  to  the 
arrangement  of  the  furniture,  had  run  upstairs  to  see  that  all 
was  in  order  in  the  bedroom,  and  perhaps  also  to  have  a  little 
gossip  with  this  new  friend.  Mr.  Brander  looked  about  eager- 
ly in  search  of  more  work. 

"  There's  nothing  more  to  do,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  rather 
wistfully. 

Olivia  smiled.  "Afraid!"  she  echoed.  "Why  I  sljpuld 
think  you  would  be  very  glad  to  shake  off  the  dust  and  the 
damp  of  this  old  place,  and  to  get  back  to  that  beautiful,  cozy 
room  where  1  found  you  this  evening." 

As  she  spoke,  an  uncomfortable  remembrance  of  the  mys- 
tery which  hung  about  the  house  and  its  rumored  connection 
with  him  came  into  her  mind.  Mr.  Brander  looked  straight 
into  her  face,  and  said : 

"  Under  some  circumstances  I  might  be.  For  I  knew  this 
place  very  well  before  it  was  left  to  dust  and  damp.  But  now 
I  am  glad  to  think  that  it  is  going  to  have  life  and  youth  and 
brightness  in  it  again — very  glad;  and  1  don't  want  to  hurry 
away  at  all." 

He  spoke  so  gravely,  and  expressed  his  reluctance  to  go  so 
naively,  that  Olivia  was  silent,  not  quite  knowing  in  what 
tone  to  answer  him.  Then  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  he 
might  have  offended  her,  and  without  looking  into  her  face 
again,  he  hastened  to  say: 

'  You  must  excuse  my  boorishness  if  I  don't  express  myself 
in  the  orthodox  way.  I  live  like  a  hermit,  and  have  done  for 
the  last  " — he  paused,  and  then  added  slowly,  as  if  counting 
up  the  time — "  ten  years.  I  have  forgotten  how  to  make 
pretty  phrases.  What  I  meant  was  this:  I  haven't  had  half 
an  hour's  pleasant  talk  with  a  lady,  as  I  have  with  you  this 
evening,  for  all  that  time — ten  years!  And  it  will  be  very 
likely  ten  years  before  I  have  another.  And  so  I  have  en- 
joyed myself,  and  I  am  sorry  it's  over,  though  I  dare  say  you 
are  rather  tired  of  the  rustic  parson  and  his  solecisms." 

An  awkward  constraint  had  fallen  upon  him;  he  had  grown 
shy  and  unhappy.  Olivia  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  she  answered 
in  tones  of  sweet  feminine  gentleness  which  seemed  to  pour 
balm  upon  some  hidden  wound. 

"  I  believe  part  of  what  you  say.  For  if  you  had  been  used 
to  ladies'  society  you  must  have  known  that  talking  to  you  has 
given  me  at  least  as  much  pleasure  as  talking  to  me  can  have 
given  you.  And  if  you  are  not  going  to  have  another  talk 


ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER.  47 

with  me  for  another  ten  years,  as  you  threaten,  it  will  be  your 
fault,  and  not  mine. " 

There  was  a  pretty  gracioasness  in  her  manner,  the  result 
of  the  homage  her  beauy  had  always  obtained  for  her.  Mr. 
Brander  gave  her  a  shy  glance  of  adoring  gratitude  which  mo- 
mentarily lighted  up  his  dark  face. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  1  shall  remem- 
ber your  pretty  words  and  your  kind  looks,  believe  me;  bat 
when  we  next  meet,  it  will  not  be  the  same,  and  it  will  be  no 
fault  of  yours." 

Olivia  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out  into  a  passionate 
assurance  that  no  hearsay  talk  altered  her  opinion  of  her 
friends;  but  a  certain  gloom  which  settled  on  his  face  and  gave 
him  almost  a  forbidding  aspect  checked  her,  and  she  remem- 
bered, while  a  deep  blush  crept  into  her  handsome  cheeks,  that 
it  is  unconventionally  premature  to  call  the  acquaintance  of 
half  a  day  a  friend.  So  she  remained  modestly  silent  while  he 
held  out  his  hand  and  told  her,  recovering  his  usual  manner, 
that  he  should  write  a  full  description  of  her  to  his  sister-in- 
law,  and  that  Miss  Denison  might  expect  to  be  chartered  as  a 
district  visitor  before  she  had  time  or  inclination  to  say  "  Jack 
Kobinson." 

Mr.  Brander  then  called  the  two  maids  and  started  them  on 
their  walk  home;  brought  in  a  luncheon  basket  which  he  had 
left  in  the  hall,  and  handed  it  to  Lucy,  telling  her  to  open  it 
when  her  mistress  felt  inclined  for  supper;  and,  before  Olivia 
could  thank  him  for  this  fresh  proof  of  his  kindness,  he  was 
already  out  of  the  house. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  him  when  Lucy,  with  an 
exclamation  of  horror  and  disgust,  flung  down  the  luncheon 
basket,  and,  running  to  the  nearest  window,  threw  it  wide 
open. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Lucy?"  asked  her  mistress,  in  as- 
tonishment, crossing  quickly  to  the  girl  to  see  whether  she 
was  ill. 

"  Airing  the  place,  miss,  after  that  bad,  wicked  man,"  an- 
swered the  little  maid,  vehemently. 

"  You  ungrateful  girl,  after  all  Mr.  Brander  has  done  for 
us.  How  can  you  say  such  things?" 

"  I  say  what  I  know,  miss,  and  what  is  known  all  over  the 
place,  miss,  to  every  one  but  you,"  answered  Lucy,  her  face 
crimson  with  excitement.  "  He's  a  murderer,  miss;  he  mur- 
dered the  poor  girl  who  used  to  live  in  those  rooms  upstairs. " 

Olivia  was  standing  at  the  window,  with  her  hand  on  the 
latch  to  close  it.  Just  as  Lucy  hissed  out  those  words  in  » 


48  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

voice  shrill  and  broken  with  horror,  Mr.  Brander  passed.  The 
light  from  the  room  fell  full  upon  his  face.  He  had  heard  the 
girl's  words.  A  look,  not  of  indignation,  but  of  shame,  of 
agony,  convulsed  his  pale  features,  but  he  did  not  turn  his 
head.  Olivia  shivered.  She  wanted  to  call  out  to  him,  to  ask 
him  to  deny  this  infamous  slander;  but  her  mouth  was  dry 
and  the  words  would  not  come.  For  he  must  have  heard,  she 
knew,  and  yet  there  was  no  denial  in  his  face. 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  closed  the  window. 
'  There,  it's  quite  upset  you;  I  knew  it  would,  Miss  Olivia," 
said  Lucy,  rather  triumphantly.     "  Aren't  you  shocked?" 

But  the  tears  were  gathering  in  Olivia's  eyes. 

"  I'm  shocked,  yes,  of  course,"   said  she,  sadly.     "  And 
I'm  dreadfully — dreadfully  sorry." 

Lucy  was  scandalized.     This  was  not  the  way  in  which  she 
had  been  taught  to  look  upon  a  criminal. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN  spite  of  all  her  philosophy,  of  all  her  fortitude,  Olivia 
Denison  could  not  deny,  even  to  herself,  that  the  one  terrible 
word  "  murderer  "  applied  to  the  man  who  had  proved  him- 
self such  a  kind  friend,  gave  a  shock  such  as  no  newly  formed 
friendship  could  stand  unshaken.  If  he  had  only  denied  the 
charge  by  so  much  as  a  look!  But,  on  the  contrary,  his 
downcast  head  and  hurrying  step  when  Lucy's  indiscreet  re- 
mark fell  on  his  ears  seemed  like  a  tacit  admission  of  the  jus- 
tice of  it.  The  little  maid's  characteristic  comments  on  the 
matter  jarred  upon  her  greatly. 

"  You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather,  Miss 
Olivia,  when  they  first  told  me  it  was  him  as  made  away  with 
the  young  woman  whose  rooms  we  were  rummaging  in  to-day ! 
*  Lor','  I  says,  *  never!  A  nice-spoken  gentleman  like  that!' 
Indeed,  Miss — " 

"Who  was  it  told  you,  Lucy?"  interrupted  her  mistress, 
quietly. 

"  It  was  when  I  was  going  up  the  road,  ma'am,  looking  for 
you.  For  1  got  that  frightened  at  last,  sitting  here  all  myself, 
and  nobody  to  speak  to,  and  such  cracklings  and  noises  as  you 
never  heard  along  the  walls!  So  I  went  out  a  little  way, 
thinking  perhaps  you  had  missed  the  road  and  lost  yourself. 
And  1  came  across  two  women  and  a  man  standing  at  the  gate 
of  a  farm-yard.  And  I  spoke  to  them,  and  they  guessed 
where  1  came  from;  for  it  seems  it  was  the  farm  belonging  to 
that  rude  man,  though  I  didn't  know  it  at  the  time.  Am? 


ST.  WCHBERT'S  TOWEK.  49 

they  asked  me  in,  saying  as  they  wouldn't  keep  me  not  a  min- 
ute, Vnd  I  was  so  glad  not  to  be  alone  that  I  went  just  inside 
th</  kitchen-door  with  them — just  for  a  minute.  But  then 
they  told  me  such  things  that  1  felt  I  couldn't  come  back  to 
this  house  all  by  myself  after  hearing  of  them.  They  said 
how  that  clergyman,  for  all  his  nice-seeming  ways,  used  to  be 
a  wild  sort  of  young  man,  and  how  he  once  courted  her  that's 
now  the  vicar's  lady,  but  she  wouldn't  have  nothing  to  say  to 
him.  And  so  when  she  married  his  brother  he  got  wilder  and 
wilder,  and  he  took  to  courting  the  farmer's  daughter  that 
lived  here  on  the  sly,  like,  and  not  fair  and  open.  She  was  a 
masterful  sort  of  girl,  and  her  brother  and  his  wife,  that  she 
lived  with,  let  her  have  her  own  way  too  much,  and  have  ideas 
above  her  station.  And  people  think  she  believed  he'd  marry 
her,  for  her  own  people  and  every  one  was  beginning  to  talk; 
and  then  one  night — it  was  the  7th  of  July,  miss,  ten  years 
and  a  half  ago — she  went  out  to  meet  him,  down  by  his  own. 
church,  as  people  knew  she'd  done  before,  and  she  never  came 
back.  And  nobody's  never  seen  nothing  of  her  from  that  day 
to  this;  only  there  were  screams  heard  that  night  down  by 
Saint  Cuthbert's — that's  his  church,  ma'am." 

Lucy  ended  in  a  mysterious  whisper,  and  both  she  and  her 
mistress  remained  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then  Miss  Deni- 
son  spoke  in  a  warm  and  decided  tone: 

"  There  must  have  been  investigations  made.  If  there  had 
been  anything  like  just  ground  for  supposing  that  Mr.  Brander 
had  made  away  with  the  girl,  he  would  at  least  have  been 
hunted  out  of  the  parish,  even  if  there  had  not  been  proof 
enough  to  have  him  arrested. " 

"  He  was  arrested,  Miss  Olivia.  But  his  mother  was  Lord 
Stannington's  sister,  so  he  had  friends  at  court;  and  as  for  his 
brother,  he  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  have  him  got  off.  And 
so  those  as  knew  most  didn't  dare  to  come  forward,  and  noth- 
ing wasn't  found;  and  as  everybody  knew  the  poor  girl  hadn't 
had  the  best  of  characters,  and  had  always  been  a  bit  gay, 
like,  they  said  there  wasn't  evidence  enough,  and  Mr.  Brander 
was  never  brought  up. " 

"But  he  remained  in  his  parish!  That  would  have  been 
too  much  of  a  scandal  if  the  suspicion  had  been  strong.  I 
think  you  have  only  been  listening  to  a  lot  of  tattle,  Lucy;" 
said  Miss  Denison,  trying  to  disguise  the  deep  interest  she  could 
not  help  feeling  in  this  gossip. 

"  Well,  Miss  Olivia,  I  only  tell  you  what  was  told  me,"  said 
the  girl,  rather  offended  at  the  slur  cast  upon  her  information. 

And  she  crossed  over  to  the  fire-place  and  began  to  break 


50  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

the  lumjjs  of  coal  into  a  blaze,  to  intimate  that,  in  deference 
to  her  mistress's  wish,  she  had  done  wth  idle  gossip.  But,  as 
she  slyly  guessed,  the  subject  was  far  too  interesting  to  be 
shelved  like  that. 

Miss  Denison  took  it  up  again  abruptly,  no  longer  attempt- 
ing to  hide  the  warmth  of  her  feeling  in  the  matter. 

"  How  was  it  he  stayed,  then?"  she  asked. 

"  It  was  his  brother's  doing,  that,  ma'am,  I  believe,"  said 
Lucy,  delighted  to  have  her  tongue  loosed  again.  "He 
backed  him  up,  and  advised  him  to  face  it  out,  so  everybody 
says.  And  his  being  so  strong  for  his  brother,  and  him 
thought  so  highly  of  himself,  made  people  afraid  to  interfere, 
like.  And  so  Mr.  Vernon  stayed.  He  had  only  a  poor 
parish,  full  of  colliers  and  such-like;  and  the  poor  folks  liked 
him,  because,  for  all  his  wild  ways,  he  was  good-humored  and 
pleasant.  So  nobody  objected  much,  and  he  quieted  down  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  grew  quite  changed,  and  worked  very  hard, 
so  that  now  they  think  the  world  of  him  in  his  own  parish, 
and  wouldn't  change  even  to  have  Mr.  Meredith  himself  for 
their  clergyman.  Only  the  story  sticks  to  him,  especially 
close  round  here  where  the  girl  lived;  and,  no  matter  what  he 
does,  some  of  them  can't  forget  he's  a  murderer. " 

Olivia  shuddered.  It  was  quite  true;  such  an  incident  in  a 
man's  life  was  not  one  that  you  could  forget.  She  let  the 
subject  drop  without  further  comment,  but  it  haunted  her  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening  as  she  sat  brooding  over  the  fire.  Lucy, 
who  was  of  an  industrious  frame  of  mind,  got  out  her  darning 
and  mended  away  busily.  But  she  had  a  healthy  appetite,  and 
she  had  had  nothing  more  satisfying  than  biscuits  and  a  sand- 
wich throughout  the  day.  Gradually  her  longing  glances  fell 
more  and  more  frequently  on  the  despised  supper  basket  which 
Mr.  Brander  had  given  her.  At  last  she  could  hold  out  no 
longer. 

Are  you  hungry,  Miss  Olivia?"  she  asked,  with  plaintive 
meaning. 

"  Not  very,"  answered  Miss  Denison,  waking  with  a  start 
out  of  a  troubled  reverie.  "  But  I  dare  say  you  are,  Lucy.  I 
forgot  that  I  had  wine  and  cake  at — Mr.  Brander's." 

Lucy  made  two  hesitating  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  bas- 
ket, and  stopped. 

"  Do  you  think — we'd  better  not — touch  it,  Miss  Olivia?" 
she  asked,  doubtfully. 

Miss  Dennison  got  up,  with  a  grave  and  troubled  face. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  a  little  too  late  to  try  to  avoid  an 
obligation,  Lucy,  when  every  one  of  the  comforte  round  us—* 


ST.  CTJTHBEBT'S  TOWEK.  51 

fire,  chairs,  table,  the  very  beds  we  are  going  to  sleep  on,  we 
owe  to  Mr.  Brander?" 

Lucy  snatched  at  this  view  of  the  matter  readily,  and  trotted 
off  with  eager  steps  to  inspect  the  contents  of  the  basket. 
These  proved  most  satisfactory. 

"  Bread,  Miss  Olivia;  butter,  cake,  oh!  And  a  cold  fowl! 
And  a  silver  tea-pot!"  she  announced  gleefully  as  she  made 
one  discovery  after  another,  and  skipped  with  her  prizes  to  the 
table. 

Olivia,  healthy  girl  as  she  was,  could  not  eat  much  that 
evening.  Her  responsibilities  in  the  new  home  were  beginning 
to  look  very  heavy;  and  the  strange  story  she  had  just  learned 
oppressed  her.  Lucy,  on  the  other  hand,  found  that  a  good 
supper  led  her  to  take  a  more  cheerful  view  of  current  affairs. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Olivia!"  she  exclaimed,  when  the  ineal  was 
ended  and  they  were  preparing  to  retire  for  the  night,  "  how 
much  nicer  this  is,  with  ghosts  and  murderers  and  all,  than 
it'll  be  when  Mrs.  Denison  comes  and  the  children!  Like  this, 
with  just  you,  it's  jolly,  and  I  could  work  for  you  all  day. 
And  1  suppose  when  you've  committed  a  murder  it  makes  you 
feel  that  you  must  be  nicer,  like,  to  make  up  for  it,  for  cer- 
tainly Mr.  Brander  is  a  nice-spoken  gentleman  and  a  kind  one, 
and  no  two  ways  about  it. " 

"  Now,  Lucy,"  said  her  mistress,  gravely,  "  you  must  put 
that  story  right  out  of  your  head,  as  I  am  going  to  do.  We'll 
hope  there's  no  truth  in  it  at  all;  but  even  if  every  word  were 
true,  we  have  no  right  to  bring  it  up  against  a  man  whose  life 
sets  an  example  to  the  whole  parish,  and  who  has  shown  us 
kindness  that  we  ought  never  to  forget.  1  hope  you  will  have 
the  good  sense  and  good  feeling  not  to  tattle  about  it  to  cook 
and  to  Esther  when  they  come." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Lucy,  demurely. 

Miss  Dennison  felt,  however,  that  she  was  trying  to  put  on 
human  nature  burdens  too  great  for  it  to  bear,  and  she  wasted 
no  more  words  in  pressing  the  point.  Tired  as  she  was  when 
she  lay  down  that  night  on  the  little  bed  so  strangely  provided, 
for  some  hours  she  could  not  sleep;  excited  fancies  concerning 
the  girl  who  had  disappeared  and  the  man  to  whom  her  disap- 
pearance was  attributed  filled  her  head  with  a  waking  night- 
marc.  Gratitude  remained  uppermost,  however. 

"  He  shall  see  that  whatever  1  have  heard  makes  not  the 
least  difference,"  was  her  last  clear  thought  before  sleeping. 

But  Olivia's  kind  intentions  were  more  difficult  to  carry  out 
than  she  imagined.  Next  day  she  saw  nothing  of  Mr.  Brander, 
although  she  received  another  proof  of  his  thoughtf  ulness.  A 


52  ST.   CTJTHBEBT'S  TOWER. 

vanful  of  the  much-expected  furniture  arrived  in  the  course  of 
the  morning;  and  scarcely  was  it  emptied  before  the  two  maids 
from  the  vicarage  appeared  again  upon  the  scene;  "by  Mr. 
Vernon's  order,  to  give  what  assistance  they  could  toward 
getting  the  house  ready  for  occupation.  Then  began  for  Olivia 
three  of  the  happiest  days  she  had  ever  passed.  There  was 
work  —  real,  useful,  genuine  work  —  for  head  and  hand  and  mus- 
cular arm  in  the  arrangement  of  every  room  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. The  maids  from  the  vicarage  and  her  own  trusty 
Lucy  seconded  her  with  a  right  good-will,  being  all  ready  to 
worship  this  handsome,  bright-voiced,  sparkling-eyed  girl,  to 
whom  the  lifting  of  the  heaviest  weights  seemed  to  be  child's 
play,  and  who  worked  harder  than  any  of  them.  On  the  sec- 
ond day  the  very  last  consignment  of  the  household  goods  duly 
arrived,  and  Olivia  was  able  to  send  back  the  vicarage  furniture 
with  a  grateful  little  note  of  thanks.  In  the  evening,  when 
she  was  resting  in  an  arm-chair,  tired  out  with  her  labors,  and 
enjoying  a  glow  of  satisfaction  in  their  success,  there  was  a  rap 
of  knuckles  on  the  knockerless  outer  door,  and  Olivia  started 
up,  with  her  heart  beating  violently.  The  persistent  self- 
effacement  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Brander  made  the  girl  nervously 
anxious  to  show  him  that  her  gratitude  was  proof  against  any 
evil  rumors;  and  the  hope  that  it  was  he  brought  a  deep  flush 
to  her  face  as  Lucy,  now  installed  in  her  own  kitchen,  and 
busy  still  with  polishing  of  pots  and  pans,  went  to  open  the 
door.  But  she  only  brought  in  a  note,  which  Olivia  took  with 
some  disappointment.  It  was  an  answer  from  Mr.  Brander  to 
her  own,  but  was  so  very  formal  that  Olivia  felt  her  cheeks 
tingle  with  shame  at  the  impulsive  warmth  of  her  letter. 
The  clergyman's  note  was  at  follows: 

"  DEAR  MADAME  "  —  (And  she  had  put  "  Dear  Mr.  Bran- 
der/' Olivia  could  have  torn  her  pretty  hair)  —  "  I  beg  to  as- 
sure you  there  is  nothing  in  what  I  have  done  to  put  you  under 
any  sense  of  obligation.  In  doing  what  little  I  could  to  make 
you  as  comfortable  as  the  unfortunate  circumstances  of  your 
arrival  would  permit,  1  only  acted  in  my  capacity  of  repre- 
sentative to  my  brother,  who  is  hospitality  itself  to  all  stran- 
gers. 

'  '  I  am,  dear  madame,  yours  faithfully, 

BRANDER." 


Olivia  read  the  note  twice,  while  Lucy  stood  still  at  the  door. 
"  The  young  farmer's  son  brought  it,  ma'am,  and  he's  wait- 
ing," said  she 

Olivia  went  to  the  door,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Mat  Old- 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  53 

shaw,  who  took  it  very  sheepishly  in  his  own  great  paw,  and, 
having  given  it  a  convulsive  squeeze,  dropped  it  hastily,  as  if 
overwhelmed  with  horror  at  his  presumption  in  touching  it 
at  all. 

"  Come  in/'  said  she,  smiling,  and  leading  the  way  into  the 
big  farm  living-room;  she  had  decided  that  this  was  to  be  the 
dining-room  of  the  establishment,  and  had  furnished  it  accord- 
ingly- 

Mat  followed  her  shyly,  and  remained  near  the  door  until, 
by  easy  stages,  she  had  coaxed  him  into  a  chair  at  the  further 
end.  He  was  beautifully  washed  and  combed,  and  clad  in  his 
best  clothes,  and  beautifully  awkward  and  bashful  withal. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  me  this,"  she  said;  "  and 
I'm  very  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  the 
help  you  gave  us  the  other  day.  You  ran  away  so  fast  that  I 
had  no  chance  of  speaking  to  you. " 

"  'Twere  nowt  that,"  said  Mat,  in  a  voice  husky  from  bash- 
fulness.  "  Ah'd  ha7  coom  and  given  ye  better  help  than  that 
yesterday  when  Ah  saw  t'  goods  coom,  but  Ah  didn't  like. " 

"  Would  you?  Well,  we  should  have  found  plenty  for  you 
to  do.  But  your  father  wouldn't  have  liked  it,  of  course. " 

"  Feyther!  Ah  bean't  afreeaid  o'  feyther!"  cried  Mat,  in  a 
burst  of  energetic  defiance.  "  Neea,  it  wasna'  for  him  that 
Ah  didn't  coom.  But  Ah  thowt  may  be  ye'd  ha*  been  so  angry 
with  him  for  's  rudeness  that  ye  wouldn't  care  to  ha'  seen  me 
ageean." 

"  Oh,  1  knew  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  that." 

"  That's  true  enoof;  and  Ah  coom  to-neeght  to  say  " — and 
Mat  looked  down  on  the  floor  and  grew  scarlet  to  the  tips  of 
his  ears — "  that  ye  mustn't  be  surprised  if  things  doan't  work 
straight  here  at  first.  Feyther's  a  nasty  coostomer  when  he's 
crossed,  and  there's  no  denying  he's  wild  at  a  stranger  takkin* 
this  pleeace.  An'  if  he  can  do  ye  and  yer  feyther  an  ill  turn 
he's  not  t'  man  to  stick  at  it.  An*  if  yer  feyther  don't  knaw 
mooch  aboot  farmin',  ye  may  tell  him  not  to  tak'  any  advice 
from  moine.  But  if  ye  should  be  in  a  difficulty  aboot  matters 
o'  t'  farm,  ye  can  just  send  for  me  on  t'  quiet,  and  Ah'll  help 
ye  all  Ah  can.  Ah  bean't  ower  bright  may  be,  as  ye  can  see 
for  yerself,  miss,  but  Ah  understand  t'  farm,  and  what  Ah  can 
do  for  ye  Ah  will. " 

Mat  had  strung  himself  up  to  this  speech  by  a  great  effort, 
and  he  reeled  it  off  without  any  sort  of  pause,  as  if  it  had  been 
an  article  of  faith  that  he  had  got  by  rote.  Then  he  got  up 
and  gave  a  hopeless  look  toward  the  door,  as  if  that  was  his 
goal,  and  he  was  utterly  without  an  idea  how  to  reach  it. 


54  ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWER. 

Olivia  rose  too,  and  turned  toward  the  fire.  Her  impulsive 
nature  was  so  deeply  moved  by  this  rough  but  genuine  friend- 
liness that  she  had  no  words  ready  to  express  her  feelings. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  she  heard  the  shuffling  of 
Mat's  feet  upon  floor  as  he  prepared  himself,  with  many 
throes,  for  another  rhetorical  effort.  As  she  at  last  turned 
toward  him  and  again  held  out  her  hand,  he  found  his  cour- 
age, and  began: 

"  An'  wan  moor  thing  Ah'd  loike  to  say,  miss:  doan't  you 
be  afreeaid  o'  Parson  Brander,  for  all  they  may  say.  Of 
coorse,  ye've  heard  t'  story;  t'  ill  about  a  mon  always  cooms 
oot  first.  May  be  t'  story's  true;  Ah  knaw  nowt  about  that. 
But  Ah  do  knaw  that  there's  ne'er  a  heart  loike  his  in  t'  coon- 
try-side.  An'  he's  done  all  t'  harm  he'll  ever  do  to  anybody. 
An' — an'  he  give  me  this  note  for  ye,  miss,  and  Ah've  given 
it,  and  noo  Ah'm  going.  Good-night,  miss." 

With  which  abrupt  farewell  he  made  a  countryman's  obei- 
sance to  her,  and  sheered  off  with  great  promptitude. 

"  Good-night.  1  sha'n't  forget  what  you've  said,"  Olivia 
called  after  him,  smiling. 

She  sat  down  again  to  muse  by  the  fire,  holding  the  open 
letter  still  in  her  hand;  and  after  a  few  minutes,  being  utterly 
tired  out  with  the  day's  work,  she  fell  asleep.  When  she 
woke  up  she  could  not  resist  an  exclamation  of  horror,  for  she 
saw  confronting  her,  in  the  dim  fire-light,  an  ugly,  grinning 
face,  the  owner  of  which  broke  into  a  peal  of  hoarse  laughter 
in  enjoyment  of  the  shock  his  presence  caused  her.  Starting 
to  her  feet,  Olivia  woke  up  to  the  full  consciousness  that  the 
ill-favored  intruder  was  no  other  than  her  persecutor  of  two 
nights  before.  While  she  was  gathering  up  her  forces  for  a 
withering  speech,  Mr.  Williams  gave  her  a  smile  and  a  nod  of 
friendly  greeting. 

"  You  didn't  expect  to  see  me,  did  you?"  he  began,  in  a 
perfectly  amicable  tone. 

"  I  certainly  did  not.  Nor  can  I  say  that  I  wished  for  that 
— honor,"  answered  Olivia,  with  what  ought  to  have  been 
withering  sarcasm. 

But  Mr.  Williams  grinned  on,  entirely  unmoved. 

"  No;  you  thought  you'd  shut  me  up — choked  me  off  for 
good,  didn't  you?  Why,  I've  got  brambles  and  splinters  in 
every  finger  still.  But  I  liked  you  for  it.  Oh,  I  do  like  a  girl 
of  spirit!  Why,  there  isn't  a  girl  about  the  place  I  haven't 
tried  to  annoy,  and  not  one  of  them  has  had  the  pluck  to 
round  on  me  as  you  did.  But,  then,  look  at  your  muscle,  yon 
know,"  he  added,  admiringly. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  55 

"  I'm  exceedingly  grateful  for  your  admiration,  and  I  will 
try  to  deserve  it,''  answered  Olivia,  briefly. 

She  walked  rapidly  to  the  door,  which  she  threw  wide  open 
with  a  gesture  of  invitation  to  him  to  go  out.  Mr.  Williams 
instantly  got  behind  ail  arm-chair. 

"  No,  no,  1  know  you  can  throw  me  out  if  you  want  to,  but 
just  let  me  stay  and  explain.  Look  at  what  a  shrimp  I  am 
compared  with  you.  You  can't  mind  me,"  pleaded  he. 

The  sight  of  the  little  sandy  man  clinging  to  the  back  of  the 
arm-chair,  and  "  dodging  "  any  movement  of  hers  which  he 
imagined  to  be  threatening,  caused  Olivia's  just  indignation  to 
merge  into  a  strong  inclination  to  laugh.  She  remained  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  and  said,  very 
dryly: 

"  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk  to  you  about  the  feelings 
of  a  gentleman.  But  perhaps  you  can  understand  this:  1  con- 
sider you  an  odious  person,  and  I  wish  you  to  go." 

"  That's  just  the  impression  I  wish  to  stay  and  remove/' 
said  Mr.  Williams,  blandly. 

"  You  won't  remove  it  by  staying,"  said  Miss  Denison. 

"  As  for  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,"  pursued  he,  ignoring 
her  interpolation,  "  of  course  you  are  quite  right.  I  haven't 

fot  them;  I  don't  know  what  they're  like,  and  I  don't  want  to. 
'm  a  hopeless  little  cad,  if  you  like,  though  nobody  but  you 
and  the  parson  would  dare  to  call  me  so,  because  I'm  coming 
in  to  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  pounds.  Doesn't  it  make 
your  mouth  water — one  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  pounds? 
It  does  make  a  difference,  don't  it,  say  what  you  like,  in  the 
way  you  look  at  a  fellow?" 

"  It  does,"  said  Miss  Denison.  **  It  makes  one  shudder  to 
think  of  so  much  money  being  in  the  hands  of  a  person  who  is 
not  competent  to  make  a  right  use  of  half  a  crown." 

"  Why,  1  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light/'  said  the  gentle- 
man, leaning  over  the  back  of  the  arm-chair,  and  caressing 
his  chin  musingly.  "  But,  look  here,  I  may  marry,  and  she  will 
think  she  knows  how  to  make  a  right  use  of  it,  I'll  warrant. " 

This  speech  he  accompanied  by  a  look  which  was  meant  to 
be  full  of  arch  meaning.  Miss  Denison  took  no  notice  either 
of  speech  or  look. 

Now,  are  you  going — of  your  own  accord?"  she  asked, 
firmly,  and  rather  menacingly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  ever  expect  to  get  married  if  you 
cut  a  fellow  so  short  when  he's  getting  near  the  brink  of  a 
proposal. " 

Now,  are  you  going?" 


56  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  hastily,  as  she  made  one  step  toward 
him;  "  I'm  going.  Though  1  don't  see  why  I  should  be  the 
only  man  turned  out,  when  I'll  bet  I'm  the  only  one  with 
matrimonial  intentions." 

"  You  don't  consider  that  you  are  the  only  one  with  the 
audacity  to  spy  upon  me  and  to  enter  this  house  like  a  burglar. " 

"  Now  how  did  you  guess  that?  Why,  you  must  have  been 
only  shamming  sleep  then,  when  I  hung  on  to  the  window-sill 
outside,  and  saw  you  looking  so  invitingly  like  Cinderella  that 
I  was  obliged  to  come  in  to  get  a  nearer  view. " 

Miss  Denison  was  breathless  with  indignation.  He  con- 
tinued: 

"  As  for  spying,  I'm  not  the  only  one.  I've  caught  the 
parson  prowling  about  here  these  two  evenings.  And,  look 
here,  of  course  I  saw  from  the  first  you  liked  him  better  than 
me,  and  now  you  have  heard  the  story  about  him,  no  doubt 
you  think  him  more  interesting  than  ever.  But  I  don't  intend 
to  be  snubbed  for  a  murderer.  And  so  I  tell  you  this,  Miss 
Denison:  if  you  are  any  more  civil  to  him  than  you  are  to  me, 
I'll  just  spread  abroad  something  I  know  and  that  nobody  else 
knows,  and  that  is:  how  he  disposed  of  the  body  of  the  first 
poor  girl  who  was  unlucky  enough  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  him.  And  perhaps  that  will  stop  you  from  being  the 
second." 

With  these  words  Mr.  Williams  came  out  from  his  place  of 
refuge  behind  the  arm-chair,  and  keeping  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance from  the  fair  but  stalwart  arm  which  he  had  already 
learned  to  fear,  sidled  out  of  the  room  with  a  swaggering  bow. 
He  looked  back,  however,  when  he  was  safely  outside  the  door. 

"  Don't  lose  heart,"  he  said.  "  1  shall  make  you  another 
offer  some  day;  perhaps  half  a  dozen.  They'll  come  to  be 
your  one  amusement  in  this  hole. " 

With  this  delightful  promise,  Mr.  Frederick  Williams  opened 
the  front  door  and  let  himself  out,  leaving  his  involuntary 
hostess  unable  to  distinguish  which  feeling  was  strongest  in  her 
breast — amusement  or  disgust  at  an  impudence  which  she 
might  well  consider  unparalleled. 

And  that  vague,  insolent  threat  of  his,  what  did  it  mean? 
Could  he  really  know  anything  about  the  mystery  concerning 
the  girl  Ellen  Mitchell? 

CHAPTEE  VII. 

THERE  was  no  denying  that  the  arrival  of  these  two  spirited 
young  women  had  caused  a  great  flutter  among  the  bachelors 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  57 

of  Rishton  and  its  neighborhood.  For  it  in  to  be  noted  that 
if,  on  the  one  hand,  the  remarkable  beauty  of  the  mistress  at- 
tracted the  attentions  of  the  elite  of  the  male  population,  the 
rosy  cheeks  and  saucy  independence  of  the  maid  began  very 
soon  to  make  havoc  in  humbler  masculine  hearts,  so  that  by 
the  time  Sunday  came  round,  and  with  it  the  great  weekly 
gathering  time,  the  whole  village  was  in  a  mild  ferment  of  ex- 
citement over  the  prospect  of  a  close  inspection  of  the  strangers 
— and  in  their  best  clothes. 

The  little  church  stood  on  the  very  summit  of  the  hill  on 
the  slope  of  which  one  side  of  the  village  lay.  Its  foundations 
and  part  of  its  walls  were  very  ancient;  but  after  having  been 
allowed  to  fall  into  neglect  and  decay,  it  had  been  carefully 
restored,  under  its  present  vicar,  into  a  faultlessly  trim  and 
yet  picturesque  little  building,  the  fanciful  gray-stone  tower  of 
which  could  be  seen  from  the  Matherham  high-road,  rising 
like  a  coronet  above  the  trees  which  grew  thickly  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  The  church-yard  was  kept  like  a  garden.  One  of 
its  gates  led  to  the  vicarage,  one  end  of  which  overlooked  it;  a 
second  led  through  fields  by  a  long  and  circuitous  route  down 
to  the  village;  the  third  and  principal  entrance  opened  on  to  a 
little  green,  well  shaded  by  trees,  on  which,  close  under  the 
church-yard  wall,  the  old  village  stocks,  green  with  damp  and 
a  trifle  infirm  from  age  and  neglect,  stolidly  survived  its  time 
of  active  service.  A  long  two-storied  cottage,  green  with  un- 
trimmed  ivy  and  yew-trees,  which  were  suffered  to  overshadow 
the  small  willows,  stood  at  right  angles  with  the  vicarage,  fac- 
ing the  green.  Leaning  over  the  wall  of  the  front  garden  was 
a  weather-beaten  board,  bearing  the  information  that  the  cot- 
tage was  "To  let." 

When  Olivia,  attended  by  the  faithful  Lucy,  arrived  at  the 
church  on  Sunday  morning,  she  was  at  once  accosted  by  the 
clerk,  a  small  and  sanctimonious-looking  old  man,  who  smelled 
of  spirits,  and  inducted  into  a  seat,  close  under  the  pulpit, 
which  was,  he  informed  her  in  a  low  whisper,  "  the  'All  pew." 
It  was  too  far  forward  for  Olivia  to  be  able  to  see  many  of  her 
fellow- worshipers,  but  one  party,  occupying  the  opposite  pew 
to  her,  could  not  fail  to  catch  her  eye.  It  consisted  of  two 
very  showily  dressed  young  women,  who  entered  with  much 
rustling  and  whispering,  and  were  a  long  time  settling  them- 
selves; of  a  much  younger  brother  and  sister,  whom  they 
hustled  into  a  very  small  corner  of  the  pew;  and  of  Mat  Old- 
shaw,  who  occupied  the  outside  seat,  and  who  appeared  to  be 
bashfully  conscious  the  whole  time  of  Miss  Denison's  presence, 
though  he  never  once  dared  to  look  in  her  direction. 


58  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK. 

Olivia  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  congregation  to  arrive,  and 
in  the  interval  before  the  service  commenced,  she  could  not 
help  regarding  with  some  interest  such  of  her  new  neighbors 
as  came  within  her  range  of  vision.  The  Oldshaw  family, 
with  the  exception  of  Mat,  she  knew  she  should  not  like,  but 
in  a  large  pew  in  front  of  them  sat  a  lady  whose  appearance 
attracted  her  greatly.  She  was  not  very  young  or  very  pretty; 
she  was  dressed  with  great  simplicity  in  a  dark  costume  and  a 
long  sealskin  jacket;  and  the  word  by  which  a  stranger  would 
have  described  her  was  "lady-like."  It  was  impossible  to 
help  contrasting  her  with  the  two  fidgety  women  behind;  and 
Olivia  was  growing  more  and  more  sure  that  she  should  like 
to  know  her  when,  to  her  surprise,  she  suddenly  heard  a  loud, 
hoarse  whisper,  "  Here,  gee  up,  Soosan,"  and  looking  round, 
she  saw  the  quiet-looking  lady  move  up  the  pew  at  the  be- 
hest of  the  odious  Frederick  Williams. 

As  Olivia  turned  her  head,  she  met  this  young  man's  admir- 
ing eyes  turned  upon  her  with  their  usual  vacant  stare.  He 
was  attired  this  morning  like  the  "  swell  "  of  the  comic  scenes 
of  a  pantomime,  the  salient  points  of  his  costume  being  an 
overcoat  lined  with  otter,  a  pink-striped  shirt,  light  gaiters, 
and  brick-colored  gloves.  Olivia  fancied  also  that  he  had  had 
his  hair  curled.  He  bestowed  upon  Miss  Denison  a  nod,  a 
smile,  and  a  wink,  and  appeared  quite  unabashed  by  the  fact 
that  she  vouchsafed  him  no  sign  of  recognition  in  return.  He 
ensconced  himself  in  the  outer  corner  of  the  pew,  and  watched 
her  persistently  until  a  heavy  and  measured  tread  up  the  aisle, 
followed  by  short,  pattering  steps,  announced  two  new-comers, 
and  he  had  to  make  way  for  an  elderly  couple  whom  Olivia 
rightly  guessed  to  be  his  parents. 

Not  that  they  bore  any  but  the  faintest  family  likeness  to 
Olivia's  dashing  admirer.  The  gentleman  was  an  erect  and 
handsome  man  of  sixty  or  more,  pompous  and  digified;  his 
wife  was  short,  stout,  good-humored-looking,  and  well-dressed. 
Just  as  she  noticed  these  facts  the  church  bells  ceased  ringing, 
and  a  small  choir  of  surpliced  boys  came  out  of  the  vestry,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Vernon  Brander. 

"  Isn't  he  a  dear?"  Miss  Denison  heard  one  of  the  fidgety 
ladies  whisper  to  the  other,  enthusiastically. 

Mr.  Brander  conducted  the  service  with  no  assistance  but 
that  of  the  choir  and  the  clerk,  who  was  evidently  a  privileged 
person;  for  he  put  everybody  out  who  was  within  a  dozen  feet 
of  his  nasal  voice.  Olivia  was  impressed  by  the  sermon,  but 
she  was  hardly  sure  whether  the  impression  was  altogether 
favorable.  For  the  preacher  did  not  speak  "  as  one  having 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  59 

authority/'  but  rather  as  the  servant  than  the  teacher  of  his 
hearers;  as  one  who  was  bound  to  keep  them  in  mind  of  truths 
which  they  knew  already,  rather  than  as  one  who  held  up  their 
duty  before  them  with  all  the  weight  of  a  respected  and  hon- 
ored pastor. 

When  the  service  was  over,  Olivia  lingered  a  little  in  the 
church-yard,  looking  at  the  grave-stones,  not  unwilling  to  give 
the  much-discussed  Mr.  Brander  an  opportunity  of  proving  that 
no  rumors  could  affect  her  behavior  to  one  who  had  been  kind 
to  her;  but  he  would  not  avail  himself  of  it.  On  coming  out 
of  the  church,  which  he  did  with  extraordinary  little  delay, 
Mr.  Brander  seemed  purposely  to  avoid  glancing  toward  the 
spot  where  she  was  standing,  but  at  once,  with  quick  steps, 
made  for  the  gate  at  which  the  lady,  whose  appearance  had  at- 
tracted Olivia,  was  waiting.  Her  party,  including  the  ill- 
mannered  Frederick,  had  gone,  as  they  had  come,  without  her. 

Olivia,  who,  like  all  young  girls,  could  see  a  great  deal 
without  looking,  knew  that  the  clergyman  and  the  lady  were 
talking  about  her,  and  she  would  not  pass  out  at  the  gate  while 
they  stood  there.  So  she  continued  her  inspection  of  the  tomb- 
stones, with  a  heart  beating  rather  faster  than  usual,  for  the 
very  few  minutes  that  the  tete-a-tete  lasted.  Now,  surely,  she 
might  have  a  chance  of  speaking  to  him;  in  common  civility 
he  would  come,  if  only,  as  his  note  expressed  it,  "  as  his 
brother's  representative, "  to  ask  how  she  was  getting  on  with 
her  furnishing,  and  whether  her  friends  were  coming  soon  to 
relieve  her  of  her  responsibilities.  He  passed  quite  near  to  her 
on  his  way  to  the  vicarage  gate.  She  raised  her  head  with  a 
smile  and  a  heightened  color,  ready  to  give  him  her  prettiest 
greeting;  but  he  looked  away  with  a  persistency  which  she 
could  no  longer  doubt  was  intentional,  and  it  was  with  a  blush 
of  the  deepest  mortification  that  Olivia,  whose  burning  eyes 
no  longer  saw  inscriptions,  or  tombstones,  or  anything  but  a 
particularly  tactless  and  unobservant  clergyman,  whose  con- 
duct in  not  allowing  her  to  lessen  her  obligation  to  him  by  an 
expression  of  her  gratitude  was,  Olivia  felt,  highly  reprehensi- 
ble. She  was  so  hurt,  so  indignant,  that  when  the  pleasant- 
looking  lady,  who  stood  by  the  gate  and  watched  her  ap- 
proach, made  a  movement  forward  as  if  to  address  the  young 
stranger,  Olivia  turned  her  head  stiffly  away.  She  would  give 
no  opening  to  the  friend  of  the  man  who  had  so  deeply  offend- 
ed her. 

But  anger  in  Olivia's  breast  was  a  feeling  which  could  not 
last.  Before  she  was  half-way  down  the  hill  she  was  sorry  for 
her  hasty  action  and  ashamed  of  her  disappointment.  With 


60  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

the  exaggerated  feeling  of  an  impulsive  young  girl,  she  blamed 
herself  as  ungracious  and  ungrateful,  and  decided  that  the 
avoidance  of  a  man  as  kindly  and  chivalrous  as  Mr.  Brander 
had  proved  himself  to  be  could  only  proceed  from  the  most 
honorable  motives. 

The  observant  Lucy,  perhaps,  detected  a  lightening  of  the 
cloud  on  her  young  mistress's  face,  for,  at  this  point  of  the 
latter's  reflections,  she  broke  the  silence  she  had  discreetly  kept 
since  leaving  the  church-yard. 

"  It's  a  lot  to  do  to  take  the  service  here  in  the  morning, 
and  at  Saint  Cuthbert's  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  young  men's 
class  four  miles  away  at  night,  isn't  it,  ma'am?"  she  asked, 
glibly. 

Lucy  had  already  collected  as  much  local  information  as  if 
she  had  been  settled  in  Kishton  three  months,  and  could  have 
enlightened  Miss  Denison  on  a  good  many  points  of  local  gos- 
sip if  she  had  been  encouraged  to  do  so. 
'  Why,  who  does  all  that,  Lucy?" 

"  Mr.  Brander,  ma'am.  He  holds  a  meeting  of  colliers  be- 
longing to  some  pit  at  night,  and  he  says  *  he  goes  to  them 
because  they  wouldn't  all  come  to  him.' ' 

Olivia  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  Here  was  the  little 
maid  quoting  with  perfect  confidence  the  clergyman's  own 
words. 

"  But  how  did  you  pick  up  all  this  information?" 

"  Oh,  one  hears  things,  ma'am,"  said  Lucy,  who  was  an  in- 
veterate gossip,  but  who  did  not  care  to  own  that  the  butcher, 
grocer,  old  woman  at  the  village  shop,  nay,  even  the  small  boy 
who  brought  the  afternoon  ha'porth  of  milk  from  Mrs. 
Briggs's,  who  kept  a  cow  at  the  other  end  of  the  village,  all 
were  laid  under  contribution  to  keep  her  well  informed. 
"  And  they  do  say,  Miss  Olivia,  that  the  difference  between 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Church  and  this  is  something  which  must  be 
seen  to  be  believed,"  she  added. 

Miss  Denison  said  nothing  to  this.  She  herself  was  longing 
to  see  St.  Cuthbert's,  and  would  have  found  out  the  place  and 
gone  to  service  there  that  very  afternoon  if  a  feeling  of  shyness 
had  not  restrained  her.  Church  once  a  day  had  always  been 
enough  for  her  at  Streatham;  therefore  it  could  only  be  curi- 
osity which  was  urging  her  to  break  through  her  custom  now, 
she  said  to  herself.  So  she  stayed  at  home  that  afternoon  and 
wrote  reluctantly  enough  to  her  father  to  tell  him  that  every- 
thing was  ready  for  the  arrival  of  the  rest  of  the  family.  If 
only  Mrs.  Denison  would  take  it  into  her  head  that  the  air  of 
Yorkshire  was  too  keen  for  her  sensitive  frame,  and  would 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  61 

allow  papa  to  come  without  her,  what  a  happy  lif«  they  two 
might  lead  together,  thought  Olivia.  She  loved  her  easy-going 
father  passionately,  and  as  passionately  resented  the  subjection 
in  which  he  was  kept  by  his  second  wife;  but  her  Utopian 
dream  was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  On  the  Wednesday  following 
she  received  a  long  letter  from  her  step-mother,  announcing 
that  they  would  all  arrive  next  day,  and  giving  rambling  but 
minute  directions  as  to  the  preparation  for  their  coming. 

Olivia  put  down  the  letter  with  a  sigh,  called  Lucy,  and  in 
a  doleful  voice  informed  her  that  the  reign  of  peace  and  free- 
dom was  nearly  over.  The  little  maid's  face  fell. 

"  Lor%  Miss  Olivia,  how  she  will  fuss  and  worrit,  to  make 
up  for  not  having  been  able  to  get  at  us  for  a  week!"  was  her 
first  comment. 

"  Well,  we  must  try  to  give  her  no  cause,"  said  Olivia,  try- 
ing to  keep  grave. 

"  She'd  find  cause  to  grumble,  miss,  if  she  was  in  heaven, 
and  we  was  all  angels  a-flyin'  about  of  her  errands.  I'll  war- 
rant before  she's  been  in  the  house  ten  minutes  she'll  take  a 
fancy  to  the  scullery  for  her  bedroom,  and  say  that  we  ought 
to  have  made  this  room  the  coal-cellar,"  said  Lucy,  with  ill- 
humor  that  was  not  all  affected. 

There  was  enough  truth  in  the  girl's  comic  sketch  for  Olivia 
to  give  a  sigh  at  the  prospect,  though  she  stifled  it  instantly, 
and  started  briskly  on  a  tour  of  the  house  to  see  whether  she 
had  left  any  loop-hole  for  complaints  on  the  part  of  her  step- 
mother. She  could  find  none.  She  had  prepared  the  largest 
and  best  room  for  her  father  and  Mrs.  Denison;  the  next  best 
for  the  two  children;  the  third  in  order  of  merit  she  had  fitted 
up  as  a  spare  room,  leaving  only  two  little  rooms  scarcely 
larger  than  cupboards,  the  one  for  herself,  and  the  other  for 
her  brother  Ernest,  on  his  rare  visits.  The  two  rooms  in  the 
wing  she  left  unappropriated  and  untouched,  not  from  any 
superstitious  scruples,  for  she  would  have  liked  the  larger  one 
for  herself;  but  she  knew  if  she  were  to  take  possession  of  it, 
her  step-mother  would  certainly  never  cease  '*  nagging  "  at 
her  for  helping  herself  to  so  spacious  a  room. 

Thursday  morning  came,  and  Olivia  rose  with  a  doleful  sense 
that  the  fun  and  the  freedom  of  the  week  were  nearly  over. 
Her  energies  had  found  delightful  vent  in  the  unaccustomed 
work  and  responsibility;  she  began  to  feel  that  even  if  she  had 
been  still  in  the  old  home  at  Streatham,  a  contented  return  to 
lawn  tennis  and  crewel-work  would  have  been  impossible. 
Would  Mrs.  Denison,  who  was  lazy  as  well  as  fretful,  and  who 
would  now  have  to  do  without  a  housekeeper,  be  inclined  to 


62  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

trust  her  with  the  reins  of  management?  As  Olivia  had  always 
until  now  been  known  to  have  the  utmost  horror  of  any  house- 
hold duties,  she  was  not  without  a  hope  that,  if  she  kept  secret 
the  change  in  her  own  feelings,  Mrs.  Denison  might  herself 
make  some  such  proposal,  being  amiably  anxious  to  make  those 
around  her  feel  as  acutely  as  she  did  herself  the  alteration  in 
the  family  fortunes. 

They  were  to  arrive  about  six  o'clock.  Olivia,  who  was  only 
anxious  to  see  her  father,  would  not  go  to  meet  them.  She 
would  get  old  papa  all  to  himself  in  the  evening,  and  have  a 
long  talk,  and  tell  him  all  her  adventures.  He  was  not  him- 
self while  within  range  of  the  querulous  voice  and  cold  eyes  of 
his  second  wife.  Olivia  thought  she  would  have  a  very  early 
dinner  and  a  long  walk  to  brace  herself  for  her  fall  from 
autocracy.  So  at  two  o'clock  she  was  on  the  Sheffield  Road, 
walking  fast  against  a  keen  wind,  under  a  leaden  sky  that 
promised  snow  within  a  few  hours.  She  did  not  care  for  that. 
Protected  by  a  hooded  water-proof  and  a  thick  pair  of  boots, 
the  healthy  girl  was  quite  ready  to  do  battle  with  rain,  snow, 
or  wind;  and  the  object  of  her  walk  was  quite  interesting 
enough  for  her  to  think  little  of  the  cold. 

Olivia  was  going  to  St.  Cuthbert's.  She  knew  where  the 
church  was.  She  had  seen  its  dilapidated,  patched-up  tower, 
a  very  marvel  of  make-shift  architecture,  far  away  on  the  plain 
below  her  as  she  walked  to  Matherham  by  the  longest  and 
prettiest  road.  After  walking  for  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
along  this  road,  which  was  on  high  ground  and  afforded  a 
wide  view  of  hill  and  plain,  she  had  only  to  turn  to  the  left 
and  descend  the  hill  by  a  steep  and  narrow  lane,  and  walk  on 
until  she  came  to  it.  A  feeling  of  shyness  brought  the  bright 
blood  to  the  girl's  cheeks  as  she  turned  into  the  lane.  She 
hoped  she  should  not  meet  Mr.  Brander.  The  whisper  of  one  of 
the  Misses  Oldshaw  in  church  on  Sunday  had  made  known 
that  it  was  the  fashion  among  a  section  of  the  village  ladies  to 
worship  him;  and  Miss  Denison,  having  always  held  "  curate 
adorers  "  in  stern  and  lofty  contempt,  was  most  anxious  not 
to  be  confounded  with  that  class.  It  was  just  the  time,  how- 
ever, when  she  thought  an  active  clergyman  would  be  going 
his  rounds  in  the  parish. 

She  had  indeed  met  no  one  the  whole  way  except  a  lame 
tramp,  who  was  approaching  her  along  the  Sheffield  Road  as 
she  turned  into  the  lane.  The  whole  country-side  seemed  to 
be  asleep  except  for  the  occasional  distant  shriek  of  a  railway 
engine  as  it  disappeared  between  the  hills  a  mile  away. 

At  last  Olivia  drew  near  to  the  church  and  the  vicarage, 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S    TOWER.  6i 

standing  together,  with  no  other  buildings  near,  on  a  slightly 
rising  ground  in  the  center  of  the  plain.  The  vicarage  came 
first.  It  was  a  large,  plain,  hideous  house,  like  a  great  stone 
box,  sheltered  by  no  ivy  and  no  trees,  with  an  uncared-for 
square  of  garden  in  front  of  it,  and  a  plain  stone  wall  all 
round.  Only  three  of  the  windows  in  the  front  part  of  the 
house  were  curtained;  the  rest  were  blank  and  bare,  as  if  the 
place  had  been  uninhabited.  Close  to  the  garden  wall  came 
the  church-yard,  a  mildewed  wilderness  in  which  broken  and 
displaced  head-stones  had  been  suffered  to  take  what  positions 
they  pleased,  and  lay  flat,  or  stood  sideways,  or  leaned  against 
each  other  without  hinderance.  The  church  itself  was  the 
most  extraordinary  pile  Olivia  had  ever  seen.  It  was  built  of 
stone,  and  very,  very  old  and  ruinous.  But  no  care,  no  taste, 
no  skill  had  been  for  years  employed  in  its  restoration.  As 
harm  came  to  it  from  wear  or  weather,  it  had  simply  been  re- 
paired in  the  cheapest  and  speediest  way  with  whatever  sub- 
stance came  first  to  hand.  Thus,  the  glass  of  one  window, 
having  been  irretrievably  damaged,  had  been  replaced  by 
bricks,  which  filled  up  the  blank  spaces  between  the  scarcely 
injured  tracery.  In  the  early  years  of  the  century,  a  storm 
had  brought  down  the  central  tower,  which,  in  its  fall,  had 
crushed  through  the  roof  of  the  south  aisle,  breaking  through 
the  outer  wall  and  making  one  third  of  the  whole  church  an 
almost  shapeless  ruin.  As  that  storm  had  left  it,  so  through 
sixty  years  it  had  remained,  with  only  this  difference,  that  the 
shattered  tower  had  been  brought  up  to  the  height  of  a  few 
feet  above  the  roof  with  irregular  layers  of  wood  and  brick  and 
stone,  and  surmounted  by  a  pointed  roof  of  slate;  while  the 
spaces  between  the  arches  on  the  southern  side  of  the  nave 
had  been  bricked  up  to  form  an  outer  wall  to  the  church,  leav- 
ing the  ruined  aisle  outside  exposed  to  every  chance  of  wind 
and  weather.  At  the  south-east  corner,  a  portion  of  the  roof, 
no  longer  either  very  solid  or  very  safe,  still  kept  its  place. 
At  the  south-west  angle  a  rough  hole  in  the  ground  and  a 
dozen  rude  and  broken  steps  had  formerly  led  into  the  small 
crypt  with  a  vaulted  roof,  which  extended  about  half-way 
under  the  southern  aisle;  but  the  opening  having,  not  without 
reason,  been  declared  dangerous,  had  been  filled  up,  ten  years 
ago,  with  bricks  and  stones  and  earth,  over  which  the  grass 
and  weeds  had  now  grown. 

The  gate  of  the  church-yard  was  locked;  but  Olivia  was  not 
going  to  be  deterred  by  such  an  obstacle  from  the  closer  in- 
spection her  curiosity  craved.  Choosing  a  place  where  the 
high  stone  wall  had  irregularities  on  its  rough  surface  large 


64  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

enough  to  afford  a  footing,  she  climbed  to  the  top  and  let  her- 
self down  with  a  jump  among  the  grave-stones  on  the  other 
side.  The  three  doors  of  the  church  were  also  locked;  this 
she  had  expected.  She  made  the  tour  of  the  building  very 
slowly,  trying  to  decipher  the  dates  on  the  weather-beaten 
head-stones.  Before  she  had  gone  half-way  round,  the  snow, 
which  had  been  threatening  all  day,  began  to  fall  in  large 
flakes,  so  that,  by  the  time  she  again  reached  the  ruined  aisle, 
Olivia  was  glad  to  take  shelter  under  the  remaining  bit  of  the 
old  roof.  This  formed  a  very  complete  place  of  refuge;  for  a 
sort  of  inner  buttress  had  been  formed  with  some  of  the  loose 
stones,  which  supported  the  remaining  portions  of  wall  and 
roof,  and  made  the  inclosed  corner  safe  from  wind  or  rain. 
She  was  debating  whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  make  the 
best  of  her  way  home  at  once,  in  spite  of  the  snow,  before  the 
short  day  began  to  draw  in,  when  she  heard  the  key  turn  in 
the  lock  of  the  gate,  and,  peeping  between  the  stones,  saw  the 
Reverend  Vernon  Brander  enter,  and,  leaving  the  gate  open  be- 
hind him,  disappear  round  the  west  end  of  the  church.  From 
his  grave,  stern,  absorbed  expression,  Olivia  guessed  that  he  was 
unaware  of  the  presence  of  another  human  being.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  heard  the  rattle  of  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the 
north-west  door  of  the  church,  and  then  Mr.  Brander's  tread 
on  the  stone  floor  inside. 

Olivia  did  not  wish  to  see  him.  She  decided  to  wait  a  few 
minutes,  in  case  he  should  only  have  gone  in  to  fetch  something; 
she  could  hear  him  walking  about,  opening  the  ventilators  of 
some  of  the  windows,  and  closing  those  of  others;  then  for  a 
few  minutes  she  heard  no  further  sound.  She  would  escape 
now,  while  he  was  engaged  inside.  Just  as  she  was  drawing 
the  hood  over  her  hat,  preparing  for  a  smart  walk  back 
through  the  snow,  she  caught  sight  of  another  figure  at  the 
gate,  whom  she  recognized  as  the  lame  tramp  she  had  seen 
near  the  entrance  of  the  lane.  He  was  a  man  whose  age  it 
was  impossible  to  determine,  with  coarse  features,  and  an  ex- 
pression not  devoid  of  intelligence.  He  had  a  wooden  leg,  and 
walked  moreover  with  the  aid  of  a  stick. 

Olivia  was  so  much  struck  by  the  expression  of  vivid  interest 
and  curiosity  with  which  he  scanned  every  object  round  him, 
from  the  shambling  tower  above  to  the  grave-stones  at  his  feet, 
that,  instead  of  coming  out  from  her  shelter,  she  remained 
watching  him,  convinced  that  the  place  had  some  special  in- 
terest for  him.  That  interest  her  mind  connected,  with  a 
lightning  flash  of  vivid  perception,  with  the  story  of  Nellie 
Mitchell's  disappearance.  The  man  came  toward  the  ruined 


ST.  CDTHBERT'S  TOWER.  65 

aisle,  treading  more  slowly  and  cautiously  with  every  step,  and 
gradually  turning  his  attention  entirely  to  the  ground  on  which 
he  trod.  He  did  not  come  so  far  as  the  roofed  corner,  but 
suddenly  turned  his  steps  back  in  the  direction  of  the  blocked- 
up  entrance  to  the  crypt.  Against  the  roughly  piled  stones  he 
struck  his  stick  sharply,  with  an  abrupt  exclamation  in  a  loud 
and  grating  voice. 

Just  at  the  moment  he  uttered  this,  Mr.  Brander  appeared 
round  the  western  corner.  His  pale  face  turned  to  a  livid 
color  and  his  lips  twitched  convulsively  at  sight  of  the  man, 
whom  he  appeared  instantly  to  recognize.  The  tramp,  on  his 
side,  took  matters  much  more  lightly.  Saluting  the  clergy- 
men with  a  touch  of  his  cap,  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  became 
hoarse  in  his  endeavor  to  make  it  mysterious: 

"  Eh,  Maister  Brander,  but  it's  a  long  time  since  we've 
met.  Eleven  year  come  next  seventh  of  July. " 

Olivia  held  her  breath;  the  seventh  of  July  was  the  date  of 
Nellie  Mitchell's  disappearance.  She  would  have  given  the 
world  to  run  away,  to  escape  hearing  what  she  knew  must  be 
a  confession;  but  there  was  no  way  out  except  by  passing  the 
two  men.  Brave  as  she  was,  Olivia  dared  not  face  them.  She 
shrunk  back  in  her  corner  and  vainly  tried  not  to  hear. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THERE  was  a  long  pause  after  the  tramp  had  addressed  Mr. 
Brander.  In  spite  of  herself,  Olivia  found  herself  at  last  hold- 
ing her  breath  with  impatience  to  hear  the  clergyman's  an- 
swer. She  would  not  look  at  him,  although  through  the  gaps 
hi  the  rough  stone- work  she  might  easily  have  done  so;  but 
her  hands,  with  which  she  had  at  first  tried  to  stop  her  ears, 
fell  down  at  her  sides.  When  at  last  he  spoke,  Mr.  Brander's 
'oice  was  low  and  husky,  affected  by  some  strong  feeling. 

"  Yes,  Abel,  it's  a  long  time — a  very  long  time." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Olivia's  face,  and  her  cold  hands  stole 
together;  there  was  something  in  the  vicar's  voice  which  told 
so  clearly  of  years  of  keen  suffering  that  a  great  throb  of  pity 
wrung  the  girl's  heart;  and  she  hoped,  as  eagerly  as  if  the 
matter  had  affected  her  personally,  that  this  tramp  would  keep 
his  secret. 

"  Ay,"  said  Abel,  in  whose  tones,  to  do  him  justice,  there 
was  no  malignity.  "  Ah've  kept  ma  word,  parson.  Ah 
promised  ye  that  neeght  as  Ah'd  go  on  straight  wi'out  resting 
hereabouts.  An'  on  Ah  went,  and  Ah  nivver  said  nowt,  and 

3 


66  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Ah've  nivver  been  nigh  t'  pleace  from  that  day  to  this. 
that's  straight  dealing  parson,  ar'n't  it?" 

"  Yes,  Abel;  I  always  knew  you  for  a  straight  man." 

Mr.  Brander  spoke  gravely  and  appreciatively,  but  there  was 
no  undue  humility  in  his  tone,  as  of  a  man  demanding  mercy. 
Abel  resumed: 

"  Ay,  parson,  so  1  be.  Ah'm  not  mooch  of  a  Christian,  as 
tha  knaws,  an'  if  so  be  a  mon  treats  ma  ill,  Ah  loike  to  be 
even  wi'  him.  But  if  so  be  a  mon  treats  ma  fair,  Ah  treat 
him  fair  beck.  An'  tha's  treated  ma  more  nor  fair,  parson, 
mony's  the  time.  An'  so,  when  tha  says,  '  Shut  tha  mooth 
an'  mak'  nae  guesses,'  Ah  shuts  ma  mooth,  an'  Ah  doan't 
guess  nowt. " 

"  What  brings  you  here  now,  then?"  asked  Mr.  Brander 
abruptly,  with  perceptible  anxiety  in  his  tone. 

"  Weel,  parson,  tha  knaws  Ah  wur  born  and  bred  here- 
aboots.  An'  though  Ah  been  fond  o'  trampin'  it  i'  ma  time, 
Ah'm  not  so  spry-like  as  Ah  wur,  an'  Ah'd  like  to  settle  in  t' 
pleace  where  Ah  wur  bred." 

"  You've  saved  some  money,  then?"  asked  Mr.  Brander  as 
sharply  as  before. 

"  Not  so  mooch,  not  so  mooch,  mester,  but  Ah  doan't  count 
to  end  ma  days  in  an  eight-roomed  villa,  like  t'  gentlef owk. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  vicar  spoke  in  a  constrained 
tone,  in  which  the  effort  to  repress  some  strong  feeling  was 
more  manifest  than  ever. 

"  And  if  1  ask  you  not  to  settle  here,  Abel,  but  to  pitch 
your  tent  for  the  remainder  of  your  days  somewhere  else,  what 
would  you  do?  Come,  I  don't  want  to  throw  in  your  face 
what  I've  done  for  you,  but  what  would  you  do?" 

Olivia  heard  the  man  clearing  his  throat  undecidedly,  and 
kicking  with  his  wooden  leg  against  the  grave-stones. 

"You  doan't  trust  ma,  parson,  an'  it's  a  bit  hard,  after 
howdin'  ma  tongue  nigh  eleven  year.  Eh,  but  if  Ah'd  wanted 
to  ha  spoke,  wadn't  Ah  ha'  spoke  afore  now?" 

"  If  you  had  wanted  to  speak  about  the  business,  I  should 
never  have  wasted  my  breath  asking  you  not  to,"  said  Mr. 
Brander,  with  decision.  "  I  trust  you,  Abel,  as  much  as  one 
man  may  trust  another.  But  judging  you  as  I  should  judge 
myself,  I  say  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  live  in  this 
neighborhood,  where  that  night's  occurrences  are  still  con- 
tinually being  raked  up  and  discussed,  without  its  leaking  out 
that  you  were  here  on  that  night,  and  that  you  met  me.  That, 
as  you  know,  I  wish  to  keep  secret. " 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  67 

"  But,  parson — "  began  the  man  slowly,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

Mr.  Brander  interrupted  him. 

"  Now  we've  nothing  further  to  discuss,  Abel.  I  want  the 
whole  story  forgotten." 

"  But  it's  not  a  whole  story,  Mester  Brander,  an'  that's  why 
it  nivver  will  be  forgotten.  It's  a  mystery  to  all  but  —  to 
ivyerybody;  an'  until  t'  fowk  knaw  what  become  oj  Nellie 
Mitchell,  a  mystery  it'll  be,  an'  they'll  talk  aboot  it.  Why, 
parson,  dost  knaw  t'  tales  as  goes  round?" 

' '  What  do  tales  matter  as  long  as  they  are  only  idle  ones?" 
said  Mr.  Brander,  hastily.  "  Now,  Abel  Squires,  which  is  it 
to  be?  Is  the  parson  to  have  his  way,  or  has  he  been  wasting 
his  breath?" 

"  He  maun  ha'  his  way,  Ah  reckon;  but  Ah  tell  thee,  par- 
son, it's  all  no  use.  It'll  be  none  o'  ma  doin',  but — murder 
will  oot,  tha  knaws." 

He  dropped  his  voice  to  a  low,  portentous  whisper  for  the 
last  words. 

"Murder!"  echoed  Mr.  Brander,  also  in  a  low  voice. 
"  What  are  you  talking  about?  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  not 
murder?" 

"  Ay,  that  tha  did,"  said  Abel,  rather  dryly. 

"  And  did  you  see  anything?" 

"  Weel,  not  that  neeght,  but  next  day — " 

*'  Ah!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Brander,  sharply.  "  Then  you 
didn't  keep  your  word;  you  didn't  go  straight  on!" 

The  man's  answer  came  deliberately. 

"  Ah  went  straight  on  that  neeght,  mester,  as  Ah  towd  tha 
Ah  would.  But  Ah  coom  back  next  mornin'.  It  wur  only 
human  natur';  an'  Ah  took  a  look  round.  Ay!  parson,  Ah 
hid  summat  as  would  ha  towd  a  tale. " 

11  What  was  that?"  asked  Mr.  Brander,  slowly,  and,  as  it 
seemed,  with  difficulty. 

"  There  wur  marks  on  those  steps  down  to  t'  crypt  as  is  now 
blocked  oop.  An'  down  at  t'  bottom.  An'  Ah  tramped  'em 
oot.  An'  there  wur  marks  in  other  pleace  as  Ah  made  away. 
An'  it  wur  all  for  ye,  parson,  for  Ah  thowt  of  what  ye'  done 
for  ma  when  Ah  wur  ill  and  nobody  to  care  for  ma,  an'  Ah 
did  what  Ah  could." 

"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Abel,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  huskily, 
after  a  few  moments'  pause.  "  And  you've  been  a  good 
friend  to  me." 

"  Ah,  Mester  Brander,  but  Ah'd  ha'  liked  to  ha'  served  ye 
a  better  way,"  said  the  man,  who  seemed  affected  in  his  turn. 


68  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

The  vicar  silenced  him  with  a  peremptory  "  'Sh-'sh."  Then 
he  said: 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  get  far  to-night  on  foot.  It  will  be 
snowing  heavily  in  an  hour  from  now.  You  must  get  home 
by  train  to-night." 

Olivia  guessed  that  he  must  have  put  money  into  the  man's 
hand,  for  Abel  Squires  answered,  reluctantly: 

"  Ah  doan't  tak*  it  for  howding  ma  tongue,  parson.  But  if 
ye  want  ma  to  go  further,  it's  but  fair  ye  should  pay  for  it. 
Here's  good -day  to  you,  sir,  and  may  you  nivver — " 

The  voices  were  growing  fainter.  Olivia  peeped  between 
the  stones  for  the  first  time,  and  saw  that  the  oddly  assorted 
couple  were  making  their  way  among  the  ruined  grave-stones 
to  the  gate,  where  the  vicar  shook  hands  with  the  tramp,  who 
went  back  up  the  lane  toward  the  Sheffield  Eoad  as  fast  as  his 
wooden  leg  would  let  him.  Mr.  Brander  stood  at  the  gate 
until  long  after  Abel  had  disappeared  from  sight  at  a  bend  of 
the  lane.  His  back  was  toward  Olivia,  and  all  that  she  could 
see  was  that  he  remained  extraordinarily  still.  The  snow, 
which  from  a  few  feathery  flakes  had  gradually  thickened  into 
a  blinding  storm,  grew  at  last  so  dense  that  no  mental  abstrac- 
tion could  shut  it  out.  The  vicar  suddenly  threw  back  his 
head,  and  apparently  taking  in  the  fact  that  he  was  getting 
wet  through,  gave  himself  a  violent  shake  to  get  rid  of  the 
white  covering  which  already  enveloped  him,  turned,  and 
walked  rapidly  back  to  the  church. 

As  soon  as  Olivia  heard  the  rattle  of  the  lock,  she  sprung 
out  of  her  shelter,  struggling  with  her  umbrella  as  she  went, 
hurried  over  the  uneven  ground  within  the  ruined  aisle,  where 
a  few  minutes  before  Mr.  Brander  and  the  tramp  had  been 
standing,  and  steering  rapidly  and  neatly  between  the  broken 
and  scattered  tombstones,  reached  the  gate  in  a  very  few  sec- 
onds. As  she  flitted  quickly  through,  however,  a  gust  of  wind 
blew  the  skirt  of  her  water-proof  against  the  bars  of  the  gate, 
which  swung  to  behind  with  a  loud  creaking  noise.  She  ran 
on,  and  in  a  minute  was  out  of  sight  to  any  one  at  the  church 
door,  hidden  by  the  church-yard  wall.  But  Mr.  Brander, 
hearing  the  noise,  and  being  naturally  rather  startled  by  the 
idea  that  some  one  had  been  about  during  his  very  private  con- 
versation with  Squires,  was  too  quick  for  her.  He  was  out  of 
the  church  and  on  the  track  of  the  intruder  before  she  had  got 
many  steps  up  the  lane.  She  was  just  past  the  bend  when  he 
suddenly  came  up  with  her.  One  umbrellaed  and  water-proofed 
woman  in  a  snow-storm  is  so  like  another  that  he  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  who  his  quarry  was  until  he  had  passed  her  and 


ST.    CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER.  69 

turned  to  look  back.     As  he  did  so  he  caught  sight  of  her 
face,  and  instantly  stopped. 

Olivia  stopped  too,  and  holding  back  her  umbrella,  met  his 
glance  with  a  frank,  straight  gaze.  He  raised  his  hat,  seemed 
about  to  speak  to  her,  but  hesitated.  She  smiled  and  held  out 
her  hand.  He  saw  at  once  that  this  was  not  the  ordinary 
greeting  of  an  acquaintance  she  was  tendering  him.  The 
muscles  about  her  mouth  were  quivering,  and  her  eyes,  as  they 
met  his  for  a  moment  before  dropping  modestly,  were  luminous 
with  generous  feeling,  maidenly  shame  struggling  with  woman- 
ly sympathy.  Mr.  Brander  took  her  hand  with  some  con- 
straint. As  he  touched  it,  however,  something  in  the  firm 
clasp  of  the  girl's  fingers  gave  him  confidence. 

"  Miss  Denison,"  he  said,  gravely,  while  his  keen  black 
eyes  seemed  to  read  the  thoughts  in  her  brain  before  they  were 
uttered,  "you  have  been  in  the  church-yard.  Where  were 
you?" 

The  blood,  which  was  already  crimson  in  Olivia's  cheeks, 
mounted  to  her  forehead,  until  her  whole  face  was  aglow. 
Her  eyes  fell,  and  it  was  in  a  low,  almost  faltering  voice  that 
she  answered: 

"  I  was  in  the  ruined  part  of  the  church — where  the  roof  is 
left." 

Mr.  Brander  was  startled  by  this  confession.     He  did  not  at 
once  speak,  being  evidently  occupied  in  trying  to  recall  the 
very  words  of  the  conversation  she  must  have  overheard.     But 
he  soon  gave  up  that  attempt,  and  asked  impatiently: 
'  Then  you  heard— what?" 

Olivia's  breath  came  almost  in  sobs,  as  she  answered  at  once, 
with  bent  head,  and  almost  in  a  whisper: 

"  I  heard  nearly  all  you  said — you  and  the  man.  I  am  very, 
very  sorry  and  ashamed,  and  I  ask  your  pardon.  But  I  did 
not  dare  to  come  out  while  you  were  there.  I  hoped  to  get 
away  without  your  seeing  me." 

"  But  what  did  I  say?  What  [did  he  say?  What  did  you 
understand  by  it  all?"  asked  he,  so  eagerly  that  he  almost 
seemed  to  be  bullying  her. 

"  Oh,  1  don't  know.  Pray  don't  ask  me.  I  don't  want  to 
remember.  I  would  rather  forget  it  all.  I  never  meant  that 
a  word  about  it  should  pass  my  lips,  and  it  will  not  after  this," 
said  she,  hurriedly,  without  looking  up. 

Mr.  Brander  said  nothing  fc  this  at  first,  and  Olivia,  raising 
her  head  to  steal  a  look  at  his  face,  judged  by  his  expression 
that  he  was  in  the  throes  of  some  terrible  mental  struggle,  the 
outcome  of  which  would  be  some  passionate  outburst.  But 


70  ST.  CTJTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

he  recovered  command  of  himself,  and  when  he  at  last  spoke 
to  her,  it  was  in  a  very  quiet  voice. 

"  I  am  keeping  you  standing  in  the  snow,  Miss  Denison;  I 
must  not  do  that.  But  we  must  come  to  a  word  of  under- 
standing now;  it  will  put  us  on  a  right  footing  for  the  future." 

"  You  need  not  say  another  word  to  me,  Mr.  Brander,"  in- 
terrupted Olivia,  vehemently.  "  The  understanding  between 
us  is  clear  enough;  you  are  a  most  warm-hearted  gentleman, 
and  have  shown  me  more  delicate  kindness  than  I  ever  re- 
ceived in  my  life;  I  am,  and  shall  be  as  long  as  you  let  me, 
your  grateful  friend.  What  understanding  do  you  want  more 
than  that?" 

Her  clear  young  voice  rang  out  with  enthusiastic  warmth, 
which  threw  the  clergyman  off  his  balance.  He  began  to 
tremble  like  a  leaf,  and  again  his  thin,  mobile  face  showed 
signs  of  the  emotion  within  him.  But  he  still  kept  it  under 
restraint,  and  spoke  in  a  perfectly  steady  voice. 

"  Thank  you;  I  expected  generosity  from  you.  But — do 
you  quite  understand  the  position  I  am  in,  I  wonder?  Did 
you  understand  that  man — that  tramp — is  keeping  a  secret 
for  me?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Olivia,  steadily. 

**  And  you  are  aware  of  its  nature?" 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath,  but  she  answered  bravely, 
though  in  a  low  voice: 

"Yes." 

"  And  after  that,  and  after  hearing  everything  that  you 
have  heard,  that  you  must  have  heard,  about  this  miserable 
story,  you  still  are  ready  to  call  yourself — my  friend?" 

He  kept  his  voice  at  the  same  quiet  pitch,  but  on  the  last 
two  words  it  broke  a  little.  There  was  a  pause  of  only  a  few 
seconds. 

Then  Olivia  answered  in  a  veritable  whisper,  but  with  the 
same  sweet  and  dignified  seriousness: 

"Yes,  Mr.  Brander." 

She  might  reasonably  have  expected  some  acknowledgment 
of  the  gracious,  womanly  daring  of  this  speech;  but  instead  of 
giving  any  sign  of  gratitude,  Mr.  Brander,  to  her  astonish- 
ment, turned  upon  her  quite  sharply. 

"  Well,  that's  quixotic,  illogical,  pretty  perhaps  from  a 
boarding-school  young  lady's  point  of  view,  but  not  worthy  of 
a  woman  of  sense/' 

Olivia  was  surprised,  but  she  was  true  woman  enough  to 
have  her  answer. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  71 

"  I  think  1  can  justify  it,"  she  said,  holding  her  head  back 
rather  obstinately. 

"  Very  well.  Justify  yourself  for  being  ready  to  make 
friends  with  a  man  believed  to  have  committed  a  very  atrocious 
and  cowardly  murder." 

Olivia  looked  at  him  full  and  earnestly. 

"  I  don't  believe — "  she  began,  doubtfully. 

"  You  don't  believe  what?" 

"  That  you— ever— did  it." 

"  Because  1  have  the  assurance  to  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns,  waylay  you,  and  insist  upon  coming  to  an  explana- 
tion?" 

"  No — o,  not  because  of  that." 

"  Why,  then?" 

Olivia  continued  to  gaze  at  him  as  solemnly  as  if  she  had 
been  a  judge  passing  sentence. 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  say  quite  why,"  she  began,  deliber- 
ately. "  They  say  women  hardly  ever  can  say  why  they  be- 
lieve a  thing." 

"  Is  that  all  your  answer?" 

"  No,"  she  replied  rather  sharply,  beginning  to  be  a  little 
annoyed  at  the  irony  in  his  tone.  "  They  have  never  proved 
it,  for  one  thing,  although  they  tried.  And — how  can  a  man 
have  changed  so  in  ten  years?" 

"  The  first  is  a  reason;  the  other  is  not.  But  you  have  just 
seen  with  your  own  eyes  the  only  witness  to  my  actions  on 
that  night,  and  heard  with  your  own  ears  that  he  has  not  been 
in  the  neighborhood  since. 

Olivia  assented. 

"  Then  you  say:  '  How  can  a  man  have  changed  so  much  in 
ten  years?'  But  I  tell  you  I  have  changed  so  much  in  that 
time  that,  except  for  externals,  I  might  pass  for  a  different 
man.  Now  what  becomes  of  your  reasons  for  thinking  me 
innocent?" 

"  1  will  believe  you  did  it  if  you  tell  me  so,  of  course,"  said 
Olivia,  quietly. 

"  And  what  then?" 

"  What  then?    1  shall  be  sorry  again,  and  puzzled." 

"  And  you  will  withdraw  all  those  pretty  professions  of 
friendship?" 

Olivia  debated  with  herself  for  a  few  moments  only.  Then 
she  answered,  vehemently,  in  a  strong  voice: 

"  No.  You  were  my  friend — a  very  good  friend  too — be- 
fore I  heard  anything  against  you.  You  were  good  to  us,  as 
I  hear  you  are  good  to  everybody.  When  you  met  that  man 


72  ST.  CFTHBEET'S  TOWER. 

in  the  church-yard  just  now,  you  spoke  like  a  brave  man,  and 
not  like  a  coward.  I  hear  from  every  one  about  the  noble, 
self-denying  life  you  lead.  If  you  didn't  do  it  you  are  almost 
a  martyr;  if — if  you  did,  you  are  expiating  what  you  did  in  a 
manner  which  justifies  our  respect.  Now  if  you  call  these 
women's  reasons,  I  don't  care;  they  are  good  enough  for  me, 
Mr.  Brander." 

"  And  for  me,  too,  Miss  Denison.     I — " 

He  tried  to  keep  his  voice  under  proper  command.  But 
educated  to  self-control  by  long  years  as  he  was,  he  gave  way 
under  the  unexpected  rush  of  warm  and  generous  feeling.  A 
choking  in  his  throat  checked  his  utterance;  his  keen  eyes 
grew  moist  and  dun.  He  saw,  as  in  a  mist,  a  hand  held  out 
to  him,  and  seizing  it,  he  wrung  it  in  a  pressure  which  made 
Olivia  wince. 

"  Look  here/'  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  still  husky,  while 
he  continued  to  hold  her  fingers  in  a  strong  nervous  clasp:  "  I 
have  nothing  to  say  to  you;  no  confession,  no  explanation, 
nothing.  But  you  are  a  grand  girl — a  grand  girl." 

He  released  her  hand  suddenly,  as  if  with  an  effort,  and  then 
at  once  struggled  into  his  usual  manner. 

"  You're  half  frozen  with  standing  in  the  cold  (a  very  just 
penalty  for  eavesdropping,  by  the  way),  and  you'll  be  half 
buried  before  you  get  back.  I  must  see  you  home." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  I'm  not  going  to  drag  you  all  that  way  on 
a  day  like  this." 

"  But  I  choose  to  be  dragged.  You  rash  young  woman, 
accustomed  to  the  peaceful  security  of  Streatham;  you  must 
lea^n  that  it  is  not  safe  for  a  young  lady  to  tramp  about  this 
part  of  the  world  alone  so  late  in  the  day. " 

"But  it's  not  late." 

"  It  will  be  dark  before  you  get  home.  Go  on  up  the  hill, 
and  I  will  fetch  my  mackintosh  and  overtake  you." 

He  went  into  his  bare-looking  house  while  Olivia  tramped  on 
obediently.  She  had  not  noticed,  until  then,  how  thickly  the 
snow-flakes  were  falling,  nor  how  the  gloom  of  the  leaden  sky 
was  deepening.  Now,  too,  she  became  aware,  for  the  first 
time  that  her  jaws  were  stiff,  and  her  hands  and  feet  bitterly 
cold;  for  the  interview  with  Mr.  Brander  had  been  too  excit- 
ing to  allow  her  to  notice  these  things.  He  overtook  her  in  a 
very  few  minutes,  and  walked  by  her  side,  conversing  on  differ- 
ent topics,  until  that  scene  by  the  church-yard  scarcely  seemed 
a  reality.  They  passed  only  one  person,  a  rough-looking 
collier  of  unsteady  gait,  whom  Mr.  Brander  made  use  of  to 
point  a  moral. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  73 

"  Now,  is  that  the  sort  of  person  you  would  care  to  meet  if 
you  were  alone?"  he  asked. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  been  afraid  of  him/*  answered  Olivia. 

"  No;  if  he  had  been  sober  he  would  have  been  vastly  afraid 
of  you,  and  of  most  girls,  I  should  say.  So  he  is  when  he's 
drunk.  But  your  courage  doesn't  want  stimulating;  it  wants 
repressing.  For  I  tell  you,  my  collier  boys  are  good  lads  in  the 
main,  but  there  are  black  sheep  among  them  as  among  other 
folk,  and  you  mustn't  risk  falling  in  with  one  toward  nightfall 
on  a  lonely  road.  Do  you  hear?" 

He  spoke  with  playful  peremptoriness,  but  Olivia  understood 
that  he  was  giving  a  serious  warning,  which  she  promised  to 
heed.  He  went  on  talking  about  the  colliers,  who  formed  the 
bulk  of  the  inhabitants  of  his  scattered  parish,  with  affection- 
ate interest  which  awakened  a  sympathetic  curiosity  in  her, 
until  they  reached  the  inn  at  the  entrance  of  Rishton  village. 
Mr.  Brander  had  grown  so  warm  over  what  Olivia  afterward 
discovered  to  be  his  favorite  subject  that,  quite  unconsciously, 
his  steps,  and  consequently  hers,  had  grown  slower  and  slower, 
while  his  voice  grew  more  and  more  eager  until  a  passer-by 
would  have  taken  them  for  a  pair  of  lovers  reluctant  to  sepa- 
rate. They  had  come  to  a  complete  stand-still  in  the  farm- 
yard by  the  corner  of  the  house,  when  they  heard  the  opening 
of  the  front  door,  a  man's  footstep,  and  then  a  woman's  strong 
shrill  voice: 

"  It's  no  use  looking  for  her,  Charles.  She  won't  be  hi  yet. 
Olivia  never  did  care  a  straw  for  your  comfort  or  for  mine. " 

Olivia  turned  to  Mr.  Brander,  and  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
doleful  shake  of  the  head. 

"There,"  she  said,  ** isn't  that  more  eloquent  than  the 
longest  description?  There'll  be  an  end  to  everything  now 
she's  come!" 

Fortunately  it  had  grown  by  this  time  so  dark  that  under 
her  umbrella  the  hot  blushes  which  mounted  to  Olivia's  cheeks 
as  soon  as  this  speech  had  escaped  her  lips  could  not  be  seen. 
Giving  Mr.  Brander  her  hand  very  hastily,  and  not  leaving 
him  time  for  something  he  half  hesitated,  but  wanted  to  say, 
she  turned,  and  with  a  hasty  "  Good-bye;  thank  you  very 
much  for  coming,"  ran  round  toward  the  front  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHEN  Olivia  had  come  as  near  as  she  could  to  the  porch 
without  being  seen  from  thence,  she  stopped,  in  the  hope  that 
Mrs.  Denison,  who  was  still  grumbling  at  her  step-daughter's 


74  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

non-appearance,  would  go  in-doors,  and  give  her  a  chance  of 
enveloping  her  father  in  a  warm  hug,  and  of  snatching  a  stolen 
interview  with  him  unknown  to  the  ruling  powers. 

In  a  few  moments,  to  the  girl's  great  delight,  Mrs.  Denison 
said,  impatiently:  "  Well,  I  can't  stand  here  in  the  snow,  just 
because  your  daughter  chooses  to  insult  me  by  absenting  her- 
self when  1  am  expected." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear/'  expostulated  papa's  mild  tones, 
"  Olivia  is  the  best  creature  in  the  world.  She  wouldn't  think 
of  insulting  you  or  anybody.  But  how  could  she  guess  that 
we  should  come  by  an  earlier  train  than  the  one  we  said?" 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  catch  cold  even  for  the  best  creat- 
ure in  the  world,  and  I  should  advise  you  not  to  either.  Are 
you  coming  in?" 

"  Not  directly,  I  think,  my  dear.  I  want  a  little  air  after 
that  stuffy  railway  carriage.  And  really,  you  know,  those 
children  do  quarrel  so — " 

"  If  you  want  to  go  hunting  for  Olivia,  say  so;  but  don't 
put  it  down  to  the  poor  children,"  said  Mrs.  Denison. 

And  she  went  in-doors,  shutting  the  door  with  a  nearer  ap- 
proach to  a  "  slam  "  than  etiquette  prescribes  for  a  lady. 

No  sooner  was  she  safely  inside  than  Olivia  crept  along  un- 
der the  lea  of  the  house  wall,  and  springing  up  the  worn  steps 
at  a  bound,  flung  down  her  umbrella,  and  threw  her  arms 
round  her  father's  neck  like  a  hungry  young  bear. 

"  Good  gracious,  my  dear,  you're  quite  wet,  and  as  cold  as 
ice.  You  must  come  inside  and  warm  yourself." 

"  Oh,  no,  dear  old  papa — poor  old  papa;  it's  warmer  here 
outside.  With  Beatrix  and  Regie  lighting,  and  mamma  at 
freezing  point,  the  place  must  be — " 

11  Now  you've  been  listening;  that  isn't  right!" 

"  Yes,  I  have — all  the  afternoon — taking  in  all  the  private 
conversations  1  could  get  near  enough  to  overhear.  1  find  it 
grows  upon  one.  But  I  can  always  tell  what  temper  Mrs. 
Denison  is  in  without  any  listening." 

"  Now,  Olivia,  1  won't  hear  that.  Your  step-mother  is  the 
best  of  women — " 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  know,"  said  Olivia,  nodding  gravely. 

Indeed  she  had  heard  that  sentiment  many  scores  of  times, 
and  she  supposed  that  by  constant  repetition  her  good-nat- 
ured father  hoped  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  true. 

"  And  Regie  and  Beatrix  are  the  best  of  children,  aren't 
they,  old  papa?"  she  asked,  gravely. 

He  was  quite  distressed  at  not  being  able  to  reply  truthfully 
hi  the  affirmative. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  75 

"  Well/'  he  said,  "  I'm  sure  they  would  be.  Only  some- 
how, 1  don't  know  how  it  is,  they  seem  to  get  a  little  too  much 
indulged,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  they  do.  I  think  they  want  a  little  more  of  your 
iron  rule,  papa, "  said  Olivia,  who  was  hanging  on  to  his  arm, 
lovingly  patting  his  cheek  and  turning  up  his  coat-collar  and 
lavishing  upon  him  all  the  caressing  little  attentions  he  loved 
from  his  adored  daughter's  hands. 

He  began  to  laugh;  her  liveliness  and  demonstrative  affec- 
tion were  dispelling  the  gloomy  forebodings  which  had  hung 
upon  him  All  day  on  the  entrance  to  this  new  and  untried  life. 

"  You  don't  treat  me  with  proper  respect,  Olivia.  If  you 
are  going  to  be  impudent,  I  shall  take  you  in-doors  and  get 
Mrs.  Denison  to  talk  to  you. " 

"  What  mortal  man  may  dare,  you  dare;  but  you  don't  dare 
that,"  said  his  daughter,  saucily.  "  Don't  you  want  to  know 
how  I've  got  on  here  all  by  myself?" 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  afraid  you'll  catch  cold." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't.  The  excitement  of  this  stolen  meeting 
with  the  king  of  my  heart  will  keep  me  warm.  Besides,  we'll 
go  in  directly.  Only  when  we  do,  you  know  what  it  will  be. 
Nag,  nag — oh,  no,  I  forgot;  that  word  is  tabooed.  I  should 
say  orate,  orate,  until  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to  have  been 
exhausted. " 

"  What  were  you  doing  out  on  a  day  like  this?  You  hadn't 
gone  to  meet  us,  had  you?" 

"  No-o,  I  hadn't.     I'd  been  to  look  at  a  church." 

"  That  means  that  you've  fallen  in  love  with  a  parson." 

"  Papa,  papa,  how  can  you  say  such  things — of  me,  too?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,  I  only  spoke  in  fun.  You  don't 
really  suppose  1  thought  so  meanly  of  you  as  that?" 

Olivia  laughed  with  some  constraint.  If  her  father,  who 
already  had  a  prejudice  against  the  clergy,  should  hear  the 
rumors  about  poor  Mr.  Brander,  nothing  short  of  entreaties 
which  she  would  be  ashamed  to  use  would  induce  him  to  allow 
her  to  exchange  another  word  with  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's.  And,  in  a  neighborhood  where  the  social  attractions 
were  so  few  as  at  Rishton,  the  loss  of  an  acquaintance  capable 
of  intelligent  conversation  was  a  serious  one.  She  grew  silent, 
and  beginning  to  feel  conscious  of  the  cold,  shivered.  Her  fa- 
ther instantly  opened  the  door  and  led  her  into  the  house.  He 
could  hear  his  wife's  powerful  voice  as  she  chatted  with  one  of 
the  servants  in  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Denison  was  one  of 
those  women  who  confide  much  in  their  servants,  without  ex- 
tracting any  confidence  worth  having  in  return.  She  dropped 


76  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK. 

into  a  stony  silence  as  her  husband  and  his  daughter  entered; 
for  there  was  a  feud,  generally  covert  but  none  the  less  real, 
between  the  two  ladies. 

Mrs.  Denison  was  a  woman  of  about  thirty-five,  of  the  mid- 
dle height,  somewhat  thickset,  with  a  cold  face,  which  was 
not  ill-looking,  though  she  had  never  been  strictly  handsome. 
She  drew  herself  up,  with  a  displeased  expression,  in  the  arm- 
chair she  occupied  by  the  fire;  and  Olivia  knew  that  her  efforts 
to  make  the  house  comfortable  had  not  met  with  the  approval 
of  its  mistress.  The  girl  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  long 
room  with  a  rather  rebellious  feeling  in  her  heart,  which  she 
tried  to  subdue,  and  held  out  her  hand  with  the  best  grace 
she  could. 

"  How  do  you  do,  mamma?  I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant 
journey,"  she  said,  cordially. 

Mrs.  Denison  gave  her  finger-tips,  and  looked  at  her  with 
cold  eyes. 

"  Quite  as  well  as  I  could  expect,  thank  you,  knowing  what 
I  had  to  look  forward  to." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  dislike  the  new  home  already." 

"  Oh,  when  it  begins  to  look  at  all  like  '  home/  I  dare  say 
it  will  be  bearable  enough;  but  there  is  at  least  a  fortnight's 
hard  work  for  me  before  that  can  happen." 

Olivia's  face  changed,  and  she  began  to  look  proud  and 
mutinous.  Mr.  Denison  rushed  into  the  breach. 

"  Come,  come,  Susan,  I  don't  think  you  are  quite  fair  to 
poor  Olivia.  Remember,  it's  hard  work  for  a  girl,  arranging 
a  big  house  like  this.  I  think  she  has  done  very  well,  indeed. " 

' '  You  must  allow  me,  Edward,  to  know  what  I  am  talking 
about,"  said  his  wife;  while  Regie  and  Beatrix,  who  had  been 
quarreling  silently  but  viciously  in  a  corner,  scenting  some- 
thing in  a  possible  discussion  among  their  elders,  came  to  an 
abrupt  truce  and  listened  eagerly.  "  1  think  I  ought  to  un- 
derstand the  arrangement  of  a  house  by  this  time." 

"  It  is  a  pity,  Mrs.  Denison,  that  you  could  not  have  spared 
Lucy  and  me  a  week  of  discomfort  and  hard  work  by  coming 
here  first  yourself,"  said  Olivia,  whose  quick  temper  was  sel- 
dom proof  against  her  step-mother's  attacks.  "I  never 
doubted  that  we  should  fail  to  please  you,  but  you  might  give 
us  the  credit  of  having  tried. " 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Susan?  What  have  you  to  find 
fault  with?"  asked  Mr.  Denison.  His  easy-going  nature  made 
him  averse  from  interfering  in  any  discussion;  but  he  had 
suffered  so  much  self-reproach  for  allowing  his  daughter  to 
come  to  Rishton  by  herself  that  he  felt  impelled  to  dare  a  word 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  77 

in  her  behalf.  "  Hasn't  she  made  the  place  very  comforta- 
ble?" 

"  She  has  at  least  taken  care  that  she  herself  shall  be  very 
comfortable/*  said  Mrs.  Denison,  in  her  most  disagreeable 
tone. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  how  I  have  done  that?"  asked 
Olivia,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

She  was  afraid  lest  her  self-control  should  leave  her,  and  the 
discussion  assume  the  vulgar  aspect  of  a  quarrel  between  two 
angry  women.  For,  blame  herself  for  it  as  she  might,  she  was 
angry  as  well  as  hurt. 

"  By  consulting  nobody's  convenience  but  your  own  in  your 
choice  of  a  room  for  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Denison,  sharply. 

"  My  bedroom!"  cried  the  girl,  with  unfeigned  surprise. 
"  Why,  what  other  could  I  have  chosen?  It  is  the  smallest  in 
this  side  of  the  house,  except  papa's  dressing-room." 

"It  is  the  only  one  that  I  could  possibly  make  into  a  bou- 
doir for  myself.  I  don't  know  whether  you  expect  me  to  give 
up  all  the  little  comforts  and  refinements  of  a  lady." 

This  speech  grated  on  the  ears  of  both  Olivia  and  her  father. 
Mr.  Denison,  after  ten  years  of  his  second  marriage,  was  by  no 
means  so  absorbed  by  marital  devotion  as  to  ignore  the  descent 
he  had  made  in  taking  for  his  second  wife  a  woman  scarcely 
refined  enough  to  have  been  maid  to  his  first.  Being  a  man  of 
affectionate  temperament,  fond  of  home,  and  sensitively  grate- 
ful for  kindnss  real  or  supposed,  it  was  natural  that  in  his  keen 
sorrow  at  his  first  wife's  death,  he  should  fall  a  prey  to  the 
first  woman,  near  at  hand,  who  should  find  it  worth  her  while 
to  capture  him.  This,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  proved 
to  be  his  daughter's  governess. 

The  clever,  superficially  educated  daughter  of  a  small  pro- 
vincial shop-keeper,  the  second  Mrs.  Denison,  on  her  elevation 
to  a  rank  above  her  birth,  was  determined  to  avail  herself  to 
the  full  of  every  privilege  to  which  her  new  station  entitled 
her.  One  of  these  privileges  she  conceived  to  be  the  possession 
of  a  "  boudoir,"  though  what  the  precise  significance  of  it  was 
to  her  it  was  not  easy  to  see,  as  she  entered  it  very  rarely, 
while  the  whole  house  was  not  large  enough  for  her  to  "  stalk  " 
in.  But  in  overlooking  this  necessity  of  her  station,  Mrs.  Deni- 
son chose  to  consider  that  Olivia  had  wished  to  put  upon  her  a 
slight  of  the  kind  she  could  least  brook,  and  no  pains  the  girl 
had  taken  in  other  directions  could  induce  her  to  overlook  the 
indignity. 

Again  Mr.  Denison,  with  unusual  rashness,  stepped  in. 

"My  dear  Susan,"  he  expostulated.     "  Olivia  must  have  a 


78  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

room  to  sleep  in.  And  there  must  be  a  spare  room  kept  for 
Ernest.  Where  else  could  she  stow  herself?" 

"  There  are  two  good  rooms  in  the  wing — "  began  Mrs. 
Denison. 

"  But,  my  dear,  they  are  damp  and  full  of  moldy  old 
things  that — " 

He  was  interrupted  in  his  turn  by  his  daughter. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  objection  to  sleeping  in  the  wing,  papa. 
I  left  those  rooms  untouched  for  Mrs.  Denison  to  decide  what 
she  would  have  done  with  them.  I  will  take  the  large  room 
with  pleasure,  moldy  old  things  and  all." 

In  truth,  Olivia  was  pleased  with  this  arrangement,  and  she 
took  possession  of  the  room  which  had  once  been  Ellen  Mit- 
chelFs  with  an  alacrity  which  she  did  her  best  to  hide  from  her 
step-mother.  Nobody  had  told  Mrs.  Denison  the  story  about 
those  two  rooms;  but  their  decayed  and  desolate  appearance 
had  inspired  her  with  a  strong  prejudice  against  them,  so  that 
Olivia  was  allowed  to  keep  not  only  the  bedroom,  but  the  outer 
room  as  well,  for  her  own  use.  Mr.  Denison  was  strongly  op- 
posed to  the  idea  of  his  beautiful  daughter  sleeping  away  from 
the  rest  of  the  household  in  what  he  called  "  a  wretched  old 
rat  run. "  But  as  the  two  feminine  wills  were  both  against 
his,  he  could  do  nothing  but  stipulate  emphatically  that  fires 
were  to  be  kept  up  in  both  rooms  throughout  the  winter.  His 
wife  demurred  at  the  expense,  but  on  this  point  he  was  firm, 
and  had  his  own  way. 

In  the  jarring  family  life  which  the  Denison  household  led 
under  the  presidency  of  the  second  wife,  Olivia  found  a  great 
relief  in  being  able  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  wing,  away  from 
all  discordant  elements,  even  though  the  atmosphere  of  these 
two  rooms  remained  to  the  end  heavy  with  the  tragedy  of  their 
last  occupant.  That  tragedy  the  young  girl  grew  more  and 
more  anxious  fully  to  know  about;  so  she  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  the  old  books,  and  read  again  the  inscription  in  faded 
ink  in  the  old  prayer-book:  "  Ellen  Mitchell,  from  her  affec- 
tionate brother  Ned."  What  had  become  of  "Ned?"  Did 
the  "  affectionate  brother  "  know  that  his  sister  had  been 
spirited  away,  leaving  no  trace?  These  were  conjectures  which 
often  passed  through  Olivia's  mind  as  she  sat  down  for  a  lazy 
half  hour  by  her  fire  at  bed-time. 

This  half  hour  was  now  the  only  idle  time  in  Olivia's  day. 
Like  many  other  idle  English  girls,  she  had  only  wanted  some- 
thing to  do  to  develop  the  most  dashing  energy;  and  as  Mrs. 
Denison  was  too  much  enervated  by  long  years  of  laziness  to 
care  for  the  trouble  of  housekeeping,  Olivia  flung  herself  with 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  79 

ardor  into  these  new  duties,  and  found  in  them  that  necessary 
outlet  for  her  energies  which  she  had  previously  sought  in 
lawn  tennis. 

The  whole  family  had  been  settled  at  Rishton  Hall  a  week, 
and  Mrs.  Denison  had  begun  bitterly  to  complain  that  nobody 
had  called  upon  her,  when  one  afternoon,  while  Olivia  was 
busy  in  the  dining-room  with  the  children's  clothes,  and  her 
step-mother  was  shut  up  in  her  boudoir  with  a  novel,  a  car- 
riage drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  footman,  descending  from 
the  box,  gave  such  a  thundering  knock  as  made  the  old  door 
creak  on  its  hinges.  Olivia  could  just  see  from  where  she  sat 
that  the  carriage  was  very  large,  that  the  footman  was  very 
tall,  and  that  the  horses  were  showy  animals,  their  heads  held 
well  back  with  the  bearing  rein.  That  was  enough  for  her. 
She  loved  horses,  and  the  bearing  rein  was  an  abomination  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Those  parvenus,"  she  said  to  herself,  haughtily. 

And  when  Lucy  came  to  announce  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  and 
Mr.  Frederick  Williams  were  in  the  drawing-room,  she  said, 
briefly:  "Tell  Mrs.  Denison,  Lucy,"  without  looking  up,  or 
pausing  in  her  work. 

She  knew  this  was  wrong.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to  go 
and  entertain  the  visitors  during  the  ten  minutes  which  Mrs. 
Denison  would  certainly  devote  to  self -adornment  before  going 
down  to  the  drawing-room.  But,  as  that  she  felt,  in  her 
new  burst  of  house-managing  fervor,  the  giving  and  receiving 
of  visits  to  be  a  frivolity,  Olivia  was  resolved  not  to  cultivate 
any  intimacy  with  the  family  of  the  odious  Frederick.  So  she 
worked  on,  feeling  guilty  but  defiant,  until  she  heard  Mrs. 
Denison's  heavy  and  pompous  tread  upon  the  stairs.  A  few 
minutes  later,  the  drawing-room  door  opened  again,  and  Olivia 
heard  the  whole  party  come  out  to  be  shown  over  the  house. 

"You  shall  see  what  I  have  made  of  the  upstairs  rooms 
first/'  said  Mrs.  Denison 's  voice,  *'  and  make  the  acquaintance 
of  my  cherubs." 

And  to  Olivia's  delight,  they  streamed  upstairs  toward  the 
room  where  the  cherubs  could  be  distinctly  heard  screaming 
with  all  their  might.  She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  at  this  respite, 
and  was  turning  over  a  small  stocking  on  her  hand  to  see  what 
mending  it  needed,  when  there  came  a  little,  timid,  hesitating 
knock  at  the  door. 

'*  Come  in,"  said  she,  feeling  instantly  sure  the  knock  was 
that  of  a  complete  stranger. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  pleasant-looking  lady  whom 
Olivia  had  noticed  in  church.  She  had  a  diffident  blush  om 


80  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

her  face,  and  a  deprecating  smile,  which  made  her  look  pleas- 
anter  than  ever.     Olivia  rose,  and  the  lady  hurried  forward. 

"  No,  don't  get  up.  Don't  make  me  feel  I've  disturbed 
you,"  she  entreated.  "  I  know  I've  taken  a  dreadful  liberty, 
but  I  caught  sight  of  you  in  here  as  we  came  in,  and  I'm  so 
devouringly  anxious  to  know  you  that  when  Mrs.  Denison 
offered  to  take  us  all  upstairs,  I  slipped  behind  to  try  to  get  a 
peep  at  you." 

Olivia  was  disarmed.  Miss  Williams  took  a  chair  beside  her, 
and  looked  with  interest  at  the  work  in  her  hand. 

"  1  could  show  you  such  a  much  better  way  of  mending  that 
heel  if  you'd  let  me,"  she  said,  almost  with  eagerness. 

"  Oh,  if  you're  what  they  call  '  clever  with  your  needle,'  I 
mustn't  work  before  you,"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "  I'm  only 
a  beginner  at  anything  useful,  and  I  bungle  frightfully  over 
everything  at  present." 

"  But  you  want  to  learn?"  asked  the  lady,  quite  earnestly. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  We  haven't  enough  servants  now  to  do 
everything;  and  unless  I  learn  to  give  real  help  in  the  house — 
not  mere  amateurish  dabbling,  you  know — half  the  things  that 
ought  to  be  done  will  be  left  undone." 

Miss  Williams 's  gloves  were  off,  and  she  was  already  busy 
with  the  small  stocking.  Olivia  was  astonished  to  notice  that 
the  quick,  clever  fingers  bore  distant  traces,  both  in  shape  and 
texture,  of  former  hard  work.  The  elder  lady  glanced  up, 
caught  the  girl's  eyes,  and  blushed. 

Yes,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  as  if  telling  a  secret,  "  you 
would  be  astonished  if  I  were  to  tell  you  of  all  the  work  these 
hands  have  done  in  their  time.  Now  that  my  father  has  got 
on,  and  married  a  lady,  all  that  has  to  be  forgotten.  But,  oh! 
if  the  servants  knew,  when  I  tell  them  the  hall  has  not  been 
properly  scrubbed,  how  I  long  to  be  down  on  my  knees  doing 
it  myself. " 

She  was  in  earnest,  but  there  was  such  a  twinkle  of  fun  in 
her  eyes  that  Olivia,  who  liked  her  more  and  more  every  min- 
ute, joined  her  in  a  burst  of  laughter.  Then  Olivia  remem- 
bered that  there  was  a  bond  of  union  between  them,  and  she 
said,  in  a  confidential  tone: 

'  You  have  a  step-mother,  too,  then?" 

"  Yes,  and  no.  Mrs.  Williams  is  my  father's  second  wife, 
and  I  am  the  child  of  his  first.  My  own  mother  was  " — she 
looked  round  her  with  mock  mystery — "  a  factory  lass.  And 
— and  so  was  I  till  I  was  fourteen.  Then  my  father  made  a 
discovery,  and  began  to  grow  rich  and  ambitious.  And  my 
mother  died — perhaps  luckily  for  her,  poor  thing — and  he 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  81 

buried  her  and  the  old  life  together.  But  he  could  not  bury 
me,  you  know;  and  if  the  lady  he  then  married  had  not  had 
the  sweetest  disposition  in  the  world,  it  might  have  fared  ill 
with  me.  But  she  is  a  kind  creature,  and  she  made  my 
civilization  as  little  irksome  to  me  as  possible.  And  that  is 
why  step-mother  doesn't  seem  the  right  name  for  her;  and 
there  is  all  my  autobiography. " 

All  the  time  her  busy  fingers  were  making  the  needle  fly 
through  the  stocking  with  a  deftness  absolutely  bewildering  to 
Olivia. 

"  You  are  luckier  than  I  have  been,"  said  the  young  girl, 
in  a  low  voice. 

Miss  Williams  looked  up  again,  her  eyes  beaming  with  sym- 
pathetic intelligence. 

"  Yes,  I  could  see  that.  My  father  married  up  for  the 
second  time,  while  yours — " 

"  Married  down.  Yes,  down  in  every  way;  that's  the  worst 
of  it;  temper,  manners,  everything.  If  she  had  been  differ- 
ent, I  should  not  have  minded  growing  poorer  in  the  least, 
but  it  is  tiresome  to  be  thrown  so  much  on  her  society." 

"  Yes,  there  are  absolutely  no  suitable  friends  about  here 
for  you. " 

"  Well,"  said  Olivia,  laughing,  blushing,  and  hesitating. 
"  1  thought  so  till  ten  minutes  ago." 

Miss  Williams  in  her  turn  flushed  with  pleasure.  But  then 
she  shook  her  head. 

"  You  might  put  up  with  me,  perhaps,  though  1  am  much 
too  old  for  you.  But  my  half-brother!  You  have  met  him, 
and  snubbed  him,  I  think,  because  he  is  always  raving  about 
your  beauty  and  spirit.  But  if  so,  you  certainly  do  not  want 
to  meet  him  again." 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  answered  the  girl,  laughing. 

"  We  might  perhaps  find  a  common  meeting  ground  at  the 
vicarage  after  next  week,  when  the  vicar  comes  back.  But  1 
don't  know  how  you  will  like  Mrs.  Brander,"  she  added,  very 
dubiously. 

"  Isn't  she  nice?"  asked  Olivia,  with  great  interest. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she's  very  nice,  and  very  handsome,  and — and 
straightforward,  and — and  looked  up  to.  She  quite  leads  the 
fashions  here,  you  know,  and  starts  everything.  She  is  not  at 
all  like  the  ordinary  humdrum  vicar's  wife.  But — " 

"  Well?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  scandal,  but  you  must  hear  all  the 
standing  gossip,  and  you  may  as  well  hear  it  ".7ithout  venom. 
People  talk  about  her  and  her  husband's  brother — " 


82  ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWEB. 

"  Mr.  Vernon  Brander?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  told  me  himself  he  had  been  in  love  with  her  before 
she  married,"  said  Olivia,  warmly.  { 

Miss  Williams  gave  a  quick  glance  at  her  face,  making  the 
girl  blush. 

"  Yes,  but,  well,  people  have  seen  her  going  in  and  out  of 
his  house  since,  and  late,  very  late  in  the  evening.  I  should 
not  have  told  you  these  things,  only  they  must  make  a  differ- 
ence in  the  way  one  looks  upon  people." 

"  From  your  manner  toward  Mr.  Vernon  Brander,  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  they  made  any  difference,"  said  Olivia, 
who  was  much  excited. 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  privilege  of  being  an  old  maid,"  answered 
Miss  Williams,  very  quietly.  "  I  can  do  without  fear  what  a 
young  girl  can  not  do — make  friends  with  a  black  sheep." 

Olivia  started.  "  Do  you  think  he  is  guilty,  then?"  she 
asked  in  a  startled  whisper. 

Miss  Williams,  who  had  risen,  looked  very  grave. 

"Of  the  other  charge?  I  don't  know.  I  would  give  my 
right  hand  to  know  that  it  was  not  so.  For  I  am  so  much  in- 
terested in  him — I  may  even  say,  so  fond  of  him.  I  know, 
from  what  he  has  told  me,  that  his  inner  life  is  one  long 
storm,  one  long  struggle.  But,  why  doesn't  he  clear  himself 
if  he  can?  To  an  old  friend  like  me  three  words  would  be 
enough. " 

"  Then  you  believe—" 

"  Why  does  he  accept  the  position?  Why  does  he  come  to 
me,  and  ask  me  to  do  what  I  can  to  help  you  in  your  loneli- 
ness?" 

Olivia  looked  up. 

"  That  is  what  he  did  last  Sunday,"  continued  Miss  Will- 
iams. "  And  he  alluded  to  '  his  unfortunate  position  '  as  put- 
ting a  barrier  between  you  and  any  wish  he  might  have  to  as- 
sist you.  Why  should  he  speak  like  that  if  he  knew  himself 
to  be  innocent  of  either  charge?" 

Olivia  was  silent.  She  did  not  care  to  let  the  other  lady  see 
how  deeply  this  matter  affected  her.  She  was,  indeed,  sur- 
prised at  the  keenness  of  her  own  feeling.  It  was  a  great  re- 
lief to  her  that  at  that  moment  voices  were  heard  at  the  top 
of  the  staircase,  and  Miss  Williams  jumped  up,  saying  that  she 
would  have  to  excuse  herself  for  playing  truant.  Olivia  shook 
hands  with  her  almost  mechanically,  and  promised  to  go  to 
see  her  without  knowing  what  she  said.  As  soon  as  she  was 
left  alone,  the  young  girl  abandoned  her  work,  and  sat  staring 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEE.  83 

before  her  in  most  unusual  idleness.     One  sentence  was  ring- 
ing in  her  ears: 

"  Why  didn't  he  clear  himself  if  he  could?" 

And  to  this  question  it  was  impossible  to  suggest  an  answer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ANY  one  who  could  have  seen  into  the  workings  of  Olivia 
Denison's  heart  and  mind  when  she  was  left  to  herself  would 
probably  have  pronounced  her  to  be  4<  in  love  "  with  the 
Keverend  Vernon  Brander.  This  was  not  quite  true.  She 
did  indeed  feel  a  very  strong  interest  in  the  hermit  vicar  and 
his  mysterious  history;  and  such  interest  in  a  young  girl's 
mind  can  not  exist  quite  apart  from  sentiment.  But,  then, 
the  sentiments  awakened  by  the  overheard  interview  in  the 
church-yard  and  by  Miss  Williams's  suggestions  were  so  large- 
ly mingled  with  doubt,  disgust,  and  horror,  that  on  the  whole 
she  felt  she  would  infinitely  prefer,  in  spite  of  his  kindness, 
never  to  meet  him  again.  She  felt  very  thankful,  however, 
as  the  days  went  by,  that  no  story  and  no  rumors  about  the 
Vicar  of  St.  Cuthbe-rt's  reached  Mrs.  Denison's  ears.  That 
lady  was  too  much  wrapped  up  in  herself  to  trouble  herself 
much  about  her  neighbors;  and  beyond  expressing  great  in- 
dignation that  he  had  not  called  upon  her,  she  expressed  no 
great  interest  in  the  vicar's  deputy. 

Olivia  was  taking  to  the  country  life  with  much  zest.  Be- 
sides her  household  duties,  she  found  time  to  occupy  herself 
greatly  with  the  live-stock  on  the  farm,  and  to  take  the  poultry 
under  her  especial  care.  Mat  Oldshaw  used  to  slip  round,  on 
one  pretense  or  another,  in  the  early  morning  when  she  was 
busy  with  her  poultry,  and,  leaning  over  the  fence,  used  to 
give  her  advice  about  the  management  of  them,  trying  to 
check  her  extravagance. 

"  Ye  doan't  need  to  give  'em  all  that  coorn,  Miss  Denison, 
now  they  aren't  laying,"  he  said  to  her  one  day  reproachfully 
as  she  distributed  grain  with  a  wildly  lavish  hand.  "  What 
profit  will  ye  be  likely  to  get  if  ye  feed  'em  oop  like  that? 
Every  egg  ye'll  get  this  year  'ull  cost  ye  twopence,  and  ye'll 
lose  on  every  chicken  ye  sell. " 

"  Well,  I  can't  starve  them  just  because  they're  not  bring- 
ing in  a  profit  just  now,"  said  the  girl.  "  If  they've  any 
sense  of  gratitude,  they'll  grow  beautifully  plump  and  fat, 
and  sell  at  fancy  prices." 

"  That  there's  regular  lady's  farming,"  said  Mat,  shaking 
his  head  dubiously.  "  And  it's  of  a  piece  wi'  t'  way  t'  mas- 


8i  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ter's  goin'  to  work  himself.  It's  very  pretty,  but  it  ain't  like 
practical  work,  and  it  doan't  pay. " 

Olivia's  bright  face  clouded. 

"  But  papa's  got  a  farm  bailiff,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  ay,  and  gotten  a  rat  to  eat  oop  his  coorn,"  assented 
Mat,  darkly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate/'  began  Olivia,  with  a  tragic 
face,  "  that  Tom  Herrick— " 

"  All  Ah  mean,  miss,  is  that  Ah'd  like  to  see  ye  mak'  a 
profit  on  your  hens;  for  that's  what  Ah  call  success,  and 
Ah'd  loike  ye  to  be  successful,  that  Ah  should. " 

"  Thank  you,  Mat;  it's  very  kind  of  you.  And  you're  quite 
right;  of  course  it's  only  by  making  every  department  pay 
that  one  can  make  the  farm  pay." 

"  Ay,"  said  Mat.  "  And  if  ye'll  but  follow  out  what  I  say, 
ye'll  be  able  to  keep  twice  them  lot  o'  hens  on  what  ye're  giv- 
in'  'em.  Ye've  got  ground  for  fifty  more,  and  if  Ah  was  you, 
Ah'd  go  over  to  Long  Sedge  Bend  and  buy  some  of  old  Widder 
Lund's;  she's  got  'em  to  sell.  And  doan't  ye  go  giving  her 
no  fancy  price,  but  beat  her  down;  that's  business,  and  she's 
none  so  poor  but  she  can  afford  to  let  ye  have  'em  cheap. 
They  bean't  so  much  to  look  at,  her  hens;  but  they're  good 
'uns  to  lay,  and  worth  a  field  full  o'  them  fancy  soarts." 

Olivia  began  to  play  thoughtfully  with  the  grain  left  in  her 
basket.  She  was  very  anxious  for  the  honor  of  her  poultry- 
yard,  and  she  began  already  to  be  fired  with  the  ambition  to 
make  it  a  successful  commercial  enterprise.  She  had  a  little 
pocket  money  put  by;  she  could  lay  that  out  as  she  pleased, 
without  consulting  anybody. 

"  How  far  off  is  this  Long  Sedge  Bend?" 

"  A  matter  o'  twea  mile  and  a  half.  It's  down  by  Sedge 
Bend  coal-pit. " 

"  And  where's  that?" 

"  Ye  go  along  t'  Sheffield  Road  till  ye  coom  to  t'  mill.  Turn 
to  yer  left,  as  if  ye  were  goin'  to  Sheffield,  till  ye  coom  to  t' 
Blue  Bear.  Bear  to  yer  left  across  t'  fields,  and  that's  Sedge 
Bend." 

"  Isn't  there  a  shorter  way  across  the  fields?  That  must  be 
such  a  long  way  round." 

"  Ay,  but  ye  maunna  go  t'  short  way.  They're  a  rough 
lot  down  at  Long  Sedge,  and  ye  maun  keep  to  t'  road." 

"  Well,  I  shall  go  this  very  day  and  interview  Mrs.  Lund. 
I'm  afraid,  though,  I  shall  be  short  of  accommodation  if  I  buy 
many  more  chickens. " 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  85 

"  Nea,  Ah'll  rig  ye  oop  some  nests  and  a  perch  in  t'  auld 
tool-house  yonder.  Ah  can  do  't  in  an  hour. " 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,  but  you  needn't  hurry  with  it, 
for  I  sha'n't  start  till  after  luncheon." 

"  But  start  as  early  as  ye  can.  It  doan't  do  to  be  late,  by 
one's  self,  in  those  parts." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  sure  to  start  in  good  time,  and  I'll  take  a  big 
basket,  to  bring  some  of  the  chickens  back  in." 

"  Best  let  mea  fetch  'em  for  ye  to-morrow;  Ah  can't  get 
away  to-day.  It's  not  for  t'  loikes  o'  you  to  carry  baskets  o' 
live-stock  along  t'  roads." 

"  But  I  can't  wait — I  can't  wait;  I  must  see  them  to-day," 
said  this  headstrong  young  madame,  who  liked  to  carry  out 
her  plans  with  the  impetuosity  of  a  whirlwind.  "  And  as  for 
the  basket,  why,  there  isn't  another  farmer's  daughter  in 
Yorkshire  with  stronger  arms  than  mine." 

Mat  looked  at  her  mistrustfully,  but  he  said  nothing  more 
on  the  subject. 

"  Ah'll  tak'  t'  measure  of  t'  tool-house  if  Ah  may  coom  in/' 
was  all  he  said. 

Olivia  was  running  to  open  the  gate  for  him ;  but,  with  a 
nod  of  thanks,  he  vaulted  over  the  high  fence,  and  set  about 
his  work  without  another  word.  The  country  lad  had  been 
fairly  bewitched  by  the  beauty  and  brightness  of  this  young 
lady,  who  seemed  to  him  a  creature  of  a  different  mold  from 
any  of  the  womenkind  he  had  hitherto  met — even  from  hand- 
some Mrs.  Meredith  Brander.  Nothing  gave  him  so  much  de- 
light as  to  be  able  to  render  her  a  small  service;  and  even  while 
he  was  taking  the  measurements  of  the  tool-house,  he  was  pon- 
dering a  way  to  spare  her  what  he  considered  the  dangers  of 
the  walk  she  proposed  to  take  that  afternoon.  The  girl  her- 
self, knowing  nothing  of  this  plan,  and  thinking  lightly  enough 
of  the  enterprise,  watched  his  proceedings  with  great  interest, 
and  finally  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  which  sent  him 
home  happy. 

Olivia  started  on  her  walk  that  afternoon  without  a  word  to 
anybody  concerning  the  object  of  her  expedition.  She  had  a 
purse  with  some  of  her  savings  in  her  pocket,  and  a  large 
poultry  basket  on  her  arm.  "  I  shall  leave  this  basket  some- 
where when  I  come  in  sight  of  the  cottage,  and  p*etend  I've 
only  come  to  look  at  the  chickens,"  she  said  to  herself,  re- 
solved to  be  very  astute.  But  the  widow  Lund  was  more 
astute  still,  and  managed  to  drive  a  very  good  bargain  with 
her  fair  young  customer.  Indeed,  Olivia  showed  such  a  help- 
less inability  to  distinguish  between  a  young  chicken  and  the 


86  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

hoariest-headed  rooster  of  the  lot,  that  it  would  have  needed 
superhuman  virtue  not  to  take  advantage  of  her.  It  was  with 
a  glow  of  unspeakable  delight  and  pride  that,  having  paid  for 
a  dozen  hens,  she  said  she  would  take  half  of  them  home  with 
her,  and,  running  out  of  the  cottage,  picked  up  the  basket 
which  she  had  hidden  behind  the  hedge,  and  brought  it  to 
pack  her  live-stock  in. 

Poor  Olivia!  An  unknown  visitor  was  such  a  rare  sight  at 
Long  Sedge  that  the  advent  of  "a  grand  lady  wi'  a  big 
basket "  had  been  reported  all  over  the  village  as  she  drew 
near  the  outskirts;  and  the  widow  Lund  herself,  with  two 
cronies,  having  watched  her  approach,  basket  and  all,  from 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Per  kin's  wash-house,  was  able  to  appreciate 
at  its  full  value  the  poor  little  ruse. 

When  her  load  was  ready,  Olivia  quickly  discovered  that  a 
basket  containing  six  live  chickens  is  neither  a  light  nor  a  con- 
venient burden,  and  perceived  that  to  carry  them  back  by  the 
way  she  had  come  would  be  a  more  arduous  and  fatiguing  task 
than  she  had  imagined.  When,  therefore,  she  found  there  was 
a  path  across  the  fields  which  would  lead  up  to  the  high-road, 
and  shorten  the  way  by  at  least  half  a  mile,  the  temptation 
was  too  strong  for  her,  and,  disregarding  Mat's  warnings,  as 
that  young  man  had  expected  her  to  do,  she  ventured  fearless- 
ly on  the  short  cut.  Half  a  dozen  unkempt  children  laughed 
and  yelled  at  her  as  she  passed;  a  few  rough-looking  women 
•whispered  to  each  other  at  the  doors  of  their  dirty  cottages; 
while  a  man,  who  was  leaning  against  a  wall  smoking  a  short 
black  pipe,  slunk  out  of  her  way,  as  if  conscious  that  she  be- 
longed to  a  higher  type  of  civilization.  Mat  was  right,  Long 
Sedge  Bend  was  a  rough  place.  The  inhabitants  looked  wild 
and  out  of  touch  with  the  rest  of  humanity;  the  long  rows  of 
small  brick  cottages,  many  of  which  were  windowless  and 
deserted,  looked  squalid  and  miserable,  while  over  everything 
was  that  black  and  grimy  look  which  the  neighborhood  of  a 
coal-pit  produces. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  pits  were  idle.  A  great 
black  wheel,  towering  over  a  mound  on  the  right,  showed 
where  lay  the  entrance  to  the  nearest  shaft.  Round  the  door 
of  a  beer-house,  smaller  and  much  more  disreputable-looking 
than  the  Collier's  Arms,  was  a  group  of  men  and  boys,  spend- 
ing their  half-holiday  in  dull  and  noisy  fashion.  They  were  a 
rough-looking  lot,  and  Olivia  passed  them  quickly.  Her  way 
along  a  cinder  path  over  the  fields,  and  for  some  time  she  got 
on  very  well,  meeting  no  one,  and  enjoying  the  frosty  after- 
neon.  Just  as  she  ran  through  a  turn -stile  and  followed  the 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  87 

sudden  turn  of  the  path  to  the  left,  however,  a  man  started 
up  from  the  ground,  called  out:  "  Halloo,  missis!"  and  at- 
tempted to  seize  one  of  her  feet.  She  was  startled  into  utter- 
ing a  low  exclamation,  and,  rightly  judging  that  the  man  was 
drunk,  she  ran  on  as  fast  as  she  could,  hoping  to  get  beyond 
his  pursuit  before  he  could  get  upon  his  legs.  But  a  drunken 
man  may  be  able  to  run  when  he  can  not  walk;  and  Olivia's 
assailant,  who  was  a  stalwart  young  collier  with  a  blear-eyed 
and  most  unprepossessing  face,  gave  chase  in  good  earnest, 
and  came  up  with  her  just  as  she  came  to  a  barrier  between 
two  fields  in  the  shape  of  a  very  high  and  very  primitive  stile. 
Seeing  she  had  no  time  to  get  over  it  in  safety,  the  girl  put 
down  her  basket  close  by  the  hedge,  turned  suddenly,  and 
faced  her  pursuer. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  thoroughly  frightened, 
for  the  young  man  looked  brutal  and  reckless;  but  she  had 
plenty  of  courage,  and  the  terror  she  felt  showed  neither  in 
her  face,  her  attitude,  nor  in  her  resonant  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want?" 

He  reeled,  not  having  expected  her  sudden  movement. 

"  Ah  want  look  at  tha  pretty  face,  meh  dear,"  said  he,  only 
just  distinctly  enough  for  her  to  understand  him. 

And  he  gave  her  a  tipsy  leer  of  admiration. 

"  And  now  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  pass  on?"  said  she, 
in  a  firm  tone.  "Or  to  let  me  pass  on  without  further  hin- 
derance?" 

"  Ah'm  not  a-hinderin'  of  tha,"  said  the  young  man,  who 
was  trying  to  stand  steadily  in  proximity  much  too  close  to  be 
pleasant.  "  Tha  can  goa  wheer  tha  lakkest." 

Olivia  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  but  as  he  made  for  the  mo- 
ment no  attempt  to  molest  her,  she  began  to  feel  reassured. 

"  Go  back,  then,"  said  she,  "  and  let  me  go  on." 

"  Nea,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  with  an  ugly  grin; 
"  Ah'm  goin*  to  help  tha  over  t'  stile.  Ah'll  carry  tha 
whisket  for  tha  if  thr'rt  civil/* 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Olivia,  taking  the  fellow's  offers  as  if 
they  were  courtesies,  "  but  I  want  no  help,  either  for  myself 
or  my  basket.  If  you  wish  to  do  me  a  service,  you  will  go 
back  and  let  me  go  on. " 

"  Ah  maun  see  tha  over  t'  stile  first,"  said  he.  "  Coom, 
missis,  don't  be  shy." 

He  swooped  down  upon  her  basket,  which  she  snatched  up 
so  quickly  that  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell  against  the  wooden 
fence.  With  a  rapid  step  she  got  round  him,  basket  and  all, 
and  was  in  the  act  of  mounting  the  first  step  of  the  stile  when 


88  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

the  young  ruffian,  perceiving  her  purpose  and  enraged  at  a 
blow  he  had  received  in  stumbling,  lurched  round  with  unex- 
pected agility,  and  laid  a  rough  hand  on  her  arm.  She  tried 
to  wrench  herself  free,  but  the  muscular  strength  she  was  so 
proud  of  was  as  a  child's  feebleness  against  the  brute  force  of 
this  man.  It  had  never  before  happened  to  her  to  feel  power- 
less like  this.  With  teeth  clinched  hard,  and  eyes  watching 
intently  for  a  moment's  advantage,  she  wrestled  in  utter  silence 
with  the  man,  who  tried  to  force  her  to  mount  the  stile. 

"  Tha'd  better  not  give  ma  so  mooch  trouble,  ma  bonny 
madame,"  said  he,  roughly.  "  Tha'll  only  have  to  pay  for  t' 
other  side.  An'  Ah'll  tak'  a  buss  now  to  goa  on  wi'." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  tried  to  kiss  her;  Olivia 
fought  fiercely,  still  without  uttering  a  word.  In  the  midst 
of  her  desperate  struggles  her  assailant  saw  the  girl's  face 
change — light  up  with  hope,  with  expectancy.  Then,  with  all 
the  force  of  her  lungs,  she  suddenly  shouted:  "  Help!"  For 
a  moment  the  collier  was  surprised  into  desisting  from  his  at- 
tack, but  before  she  could  take  advantage  of  this  he  recovered 
himself,  and  putting  one  rough  and  dirty  hand  over  her 
mouth,  growled  out,  sullenly: 

"  Nea,  theer  bean't  no  help  for  tha  till  Ah  done  with  tha." 

Closing  his  strong  fingers  on  her  face,  he  pulled  her  head 
around  with  brutal  violence,  and  had  his  own  repulsive  face 
close  to  hers,  when  he  suddenly  felt  one  strong  hand  laid  on 
his  shoulder  and  another  under  his  chin,  and  his  head  being 
forced  back  with  a  jerk,  he  found  that  he  was  in  the  vigorous 
clutches  of  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Church. 

"  Dang  tha!  It's  t'  feightin'  parson!"  cried  the  rough,  in 
a  surly  tone. 

"  Yes,  and  I'm  going  to  exercise  my  fists  on  your  ugly  face 
as  soon  as  ever  you're  sober,  you  hulking  vagabond!''  said 
Mr.  Brander,  with  a  conspicuous  lack  of  pastoral  meekness. 

The  man  had  fallen  back,  and,  half  drunk  as  he  was,  looked 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"  Tha  maun  look  out  for  thaself  if  tha  tries  that  on,"  he 
said,  sullenly.  Then  with  more  assurance  he  went  on: 
"  Dunna  think  Ah  care  for  tha  bein'  t'  parson.  It  ain't 
mooch  of  a  parson  tha 'It  be  when  all's  known.  Ay/'  he  con- 
tinued, seeing  that  these  vague  words  were  not  without  effect, 
*'  theer's  a  mon  aboot  as  wants  tha,  an'  as  woan't  rest  till  e's 
gotten  tha,  and  may  be  before  tha  taks  oop  wi'  another  lass 
e'll  mak'  tha  give  an  account  o'  t'  one  tha  spirited  away. 
Now  coom  on  if  tha  loikes." 

And  he  put  himself  in  a  fighting  position. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  89 

Mr.  Brander  pushed  him  on  one  side  so  that  he  staggered, 
and  picking  up  Olivia's  basket,  signed  to  her  to  get  over  the 
stile,  while  he  turned  to  give  a  few  short  and  sharp  words  of 
farewell  to  the  discomfited  collier.  A  few  seconds  later  Olivia, 
who  had  walked  quickly  on  in  shame,  relief,  and  confusion, 
heard  the  vicar's  voice  close  behind  her. 

"  And  now,  Miss  Denison,  I've  a  sermon  ready  for  you." 

Coming  up  with  her,  he  saw  that  the  girl,  who  made  no  an- 
swer, had  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  Fm  not  going  to  have  any  mercy  on  you  because  you 
choose  to  cry,"  said  he,  pitilessly.  "  It's  no  fairer  of  a  girl  to 
use  her  tears  against  a  man  than  it  is  of  a  man  to  use  his  fists 
against  a  woman.  If  you  don't  instantly  leave  off,  I  shall  feel 
at  liberty  to  hit  you.  You  know  you  deserve  it. " 

"  How?"  asked  she,  tremulously. 

"  How!  Why,  by  disregarding  the  emphatic  warnings,  not 
of  one  friend,  but  of  two,  and  by  dragging  out  a  poor  parson 
on  Saturday,  his  sermon  day,  to  protect  you  from  the  conse- 
quences of  your  folly!" 

"  Dragging  you  out!" 

"  Yes.  This  morning  comes  Mat  Oldshaw  post-haste  to  me 
just  before  luncheon  to  say  that  you  were  going  off  on  a  wild- 
goose — no,  on  a  tame-hen — chase  to  Long  Sedge  Bend,  and 
that  he  was  certain  you  would  come  back  over  the  very  fields 
which  he  had  just  assured  you  were  unsafe  for  a  lady." 

"  But,  Mr.  Brander,"  put  in  Olivia,  in  real  distress,  "  I've 
always  been  used  to  take  care  of  myself;  I  have  never  been 
annoyed  before.  It's  an  infamous  thing  that  a  girl  shouldn't 
be  able  to  do  what  her  powers  enable  her  to  do  just  as  well  as 
a  man!" 

"  Infamous,  perhaps,  but  indisputable.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
kick  against  custom." 

"  But  what  is  going  to  be  the  use  of  me,  if  I,  a  great  strong 
creature  who  can  do  lots  of  work,  and  shall  soon  understand 
farming  better  than  papa,  can't  cross  the  road  without  a  foot- 
man at  my  heels  to  keep  off  tipsy  coal-miners?  Oh,  dear,  I 
wish  I  weren't  a  wretched  girl!" 

"  You  couldn't  be  anything  else,  with  that  illogical  mind, 
and  that  extravagant  way  of  looking  at  things." 

"  Illogical!"  cried  she,  now  really  offended.  "  Why,  papa 
says  I  have  the  most  reasonable  head  he  ever  knew!" 

"  For  a  woman." 

Olivia  was  at  first  too  much  offended  to  answer. 

"  I'm  papa's  right  hand,"  she  said,  at  last,  coldly.  "  I'm 
just  like  a  son  to  him." 


90  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  I  think  not,  Miss  Denison,"  said  the  vicar,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  My  father  would  tell  you  so  himself,  Mr.  Brander." 

"  And  1  should  not  believe  him,  Miss  Denison." 

Olivia  began  to  see  that  the  vicar  was  enjoying  her  indigna- 
tion, so  she  bit  her  lips  and  remained  silent. 

"  Just  think  now,  what  happens  when  you  find  him  a  little 
depressed  and  irritable.  Does  he  dismiss  you  with  a  snub  as 
he  would  one  of  your  brothers?  Does  he  not  rather  submit  to 
a  little  gentle  coaxing,  allow  himself  to  be  '  brought  round  ' 
and  receive  a  kiss  as  a  reward?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,  certainly,"  said  she,  smiling.  "But 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  value  of  the  help  I  give 
him." 

"  Oh,  but  it  has.  It  has,  on  the  contrary,  everything  to  do 
with  it.  Instead  of  complaining  that  you  are  a  '  wretched 
girl/  you  must  learn  to  understand  that.  What  the  intrinsic 
value  of  your  services  may  be,  I  don't  know;  but  if  you  had 
the  abilities  of  a  Senior  Wrangler,  they  would  count  for  noth- 
ing compared  with  your  sympathy  and  love  for  him,  and  your 
pretty  feminine  way  of  showing  it.  And  so,  you  see,  as  your 
tender  womanhood  is  of  more  consequence  to  us — 1  mean  to 
him — than  all  the  fine  masculine  qualities  of  your  intellect, 
you  must  consent  to  accept  the  protection  we  decree  that  your 
womanhood  needs." 

"  Papa  doesn't  decree  it.  He  says  girls  ought  to  learn  to 
take  care  of  themselves. " 

"  Will  he  say  so  after  to-day's  adventure,  do  you  think?" 

"  I  sha'n't  tell  him  anything  about  it. " 

"  Then  I  shall,  unless  you  give  me  your  word,  like  a  sensi- 
ble girl,  never  to  cross  these  fields  alone  again." 

"  Need  you  ask  that,  Mr.  Brander?"  said  the  girl,  redden- 
ing. 

'  Well,  forgive  me.     I  don't  know  you  well  enough  to  be 
sure  how  deep  the  headstrong  vein  runs." 

"  I  am  miserably  sorry  and  ashamed  to  have  brought  you  so 
far  this  afternoon." 

"  Are  you?  Oh,  I  have  done  more  irksome  things  than 
that  in  my  time,  I  assure  you,"  said  he,  dryly.  "  Besides,  I've 
only  come  from  Saint  Cuthbert's.  I'm  back  again  in  my  own 
parsonage  to-day,  you  know,  for  my  brother  and  sister-in-law 
are  expected  this  afternoon. " 

"Are  they?"  said  she.  "I  am  so  anxious  to  see  them, 
especially  Mrs.  Brander." 

"  Make  haste  on  to  the  high-road,  then,  and  we  may  meet 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  91 

them.     The  pony-cart  has  gone  to  meet  them,  and  they  gen- 
erally come  this  way  round  from  Matherham. " 

They  were  within  a  short  distance  of  the  road  when  Mr. 
Brander  descried  a  little  way  off  his  sister-in-law's  light  wood- 
cart  and  plump  cob  pony.  Quickening  their  pace,  Olivia  excited 
and  curious,  her  companion  decidedly  nervous,  they  climbed 
the  last  steps  of  the  hill,  and  reached  the  high-road  a  few  mo- 
ments before  the  cart  came  up.  They  stopped  to  recover  their 
breath,  exchanging  a  merry  word  or  two  as  they  waited.  As 
they  drove  up,  Olivia,  who  had  splendid  eyesight,  could  see 
what  a  handsome  pair  the  Vicar  of  Eishton  and  his  wife  were. 
He  was  fair,  serene,  portly,  good-humored;  she,  dark,  erect,  and 
blooming.  They  were  conversing  amicably  as  they  came 
along,  and  did  not  notice  the  two  people  waiting  by  the  road- 
side until  they  were  close  upon  them  and  Vernon  Brander  ac- 
costed them.  Olivia  wondered  at  the  nervous  tremor  in  his 
voice  as  he  did  so. 

But  she  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  effect  of  the  meeting 
upon  the  lady  and  gentleman  in  the  cart.  The  serenity  of  the 
portly  vicar  clouded  at  sight  of  his  brother;  an  indescribable 
change  came  over  his  face,  a  look  which  was  not  exactly  dis- 
approval, or  doubt,  or  suspicion,  or  mistrust,  though  it  par- 
took of  all  those  qualities,  as  she  glanced  from  Mr.  Vernon 
Brander  to  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side.  The  expression  of 
the  lady  spoke  more  plainly  still.  Her  eyes  moved  quickly 
from  the  man  to  the  woman  and  back  again,  while  her  lips 
tightened  and  her  forehead  puckered  with  evident  consterna- 
tion. Both  lady  and  gentleman,  whatever  the  cause  of  their 
annoyance  might  be,  were  self-possessed  enough  to  give  Miss 
Denison  a  kind  and  courteous  greeting,  when  Mr.  Vernon 
Brander,  with  evident  nervousness,  introduced  her.  Learning 
that  Olivia  had  been  buying  poultry,  Mrs.  Brander  inspected 
the  purchase  with  great  interest,  but  pronounced  two  of  the 
birds  to  be  very  old  roosters  indeed.  She  then  told  her  brother- 
in-law  that  they  were  going  straight  home  to  an  early  dinner, 
and  told  him  to  make  haste  to  the  vicarage,  as  they  should  ex- 
pect him  to  join  them. 

Then  they  drove  off,  leaving  Olivia  with  the  uncomfortable 
impression  that  they  disapproved  of  her  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Vernon  Brander  in  the  strongest  possible  manner. 


CHAPTEE  XL 

NOT  for  some  minutes  after  the  little  carriage  containing 
the  Eeverend  Meredith  Brander  and  his  wife  had  driven  on  did 


92  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

either  of  the  young  people  they  had  left  break  silence.  Olivia 
watched  the  disappearing  vehicle  with  much  interest;  and  Ver- 
non  Brander,  though  with  less  openness,  watched  Olivia. 

At  last  she  turned  sharply,  and  met  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
with  a  half-fierce,  half-mournful  intentness,  which  struck  her 
with  painful  surprise.  He  at  once  turned  away  his  head,  and 
asked  abruptly: 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  them?  Mind,  it  is  of  no  use 
for  you  to  say  '  haven't  had  time  to  judge/  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  for  I  have  already  caught  the  reflection  of  very  decided 
opinions  in  your  face. " 

"  I  don't  deny  that  I  have  formed  decided  opinions,  though 
I  don't  pledge  myself  they  are  correct." 

"  Well?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  like  your  brother,  but  1  know  1  sha'n't  like 
his  wife." 

"  Very  straightforwardly  put.  An  instinct  merely,  or  some- 
thing more?" 

"  Something  more,  I  think.  You  know,  1  have  seen  their 
portraits;  well,  I  have  thought  about  them  a  great  deal,  and 
now  I  have  compared  my  impressions  of  the  photographs  with 
my  impressions  of  the  originals,  and  the  result  is  a  decided 
opinion. " 

"  You  know  I  told  you  that  you  would  like  my  brother — 
that  all  ladies  do,"  said  Vernon,  with  a  perceptible  shade  of 
jealousy. 

"  Well,  you  were  right;  I  admit  it.  He  seems  the  incarna- 
tion of  good  humor — to  shed  a  sort  of  sunshine  of  cheeriness 
around  him." 

"  Yes,  yes,  he  does/'  admitted  Vernon,  rather  bitterly, 
Olivia  thought. 

She  continued:  "  It  was  plain  that,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Brander  was  glad  to  see  me.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  they  took  an  instinctive  dislike  to  me.  But  even 
that  could  not  sour  your  brother;  it  scarcely  made  him  less 
genial.  On  the  other  hand,  it  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  to  Mi-s.  Brander 's  manner.  She  looked  at  me  just  as  if 
I  were  an  enemy,  who  had  done  her,  or  was  going  to  do  her, 
some  severe  injury." 

Glancing  at  her  companion,  Olivia  saw  that  something  she 
had  said  affected  him  very  strongly.  She  was  silent,  therefore, 
afraid  that  she  had  already  said  too  much. 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  after  a  pause,  "  that  she 
feels  a  kind  of  most  innocent  jealousy  of  you.  She  has,  all 
through  her  married  life,  been  used  to  look  upon  me  as  one  of 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  93 

those  unattached  tame  cats  who  are  only  too  glad  to  catch  mice 
for  any  responsible  matron  who  is  kind  to  them.  My  sister- 
in-law  annexed  me  in  that  capacity  long  ago;  sends  me  to 
market,  sets  me  to  mind  the  children,  to  nail  up  the  fallen 
picture,  or  even  to  lecture  the  gardener.  I  don't  suppose  she 
has  seen  me  speak  to  another  lady — a  young  lady — for  ten 
years. " 

"  I  should  have  thought,  by  her  look,  she  would  be  equal  to 
lecturing  the  gardener  herself/'  said  Olivia,  dryly. 

Mr.  Brander  laughed.  "  Well,  she  is  not  quite  resourceless 
when  it  comes  to  an  affair  of  the  tongue,"  he  admitted.  "  But 
you  must  not  think  she  is  a  shrew,  for  all  that.  Then,  she 
has  been  our  beauty,  too,  and  has  been  used  to  set  the  fashions 
for  the  ladies.  While  now — "  He  stopped  and  smiled  as  he 
looked  at  the  blooming,  prettily  dressed  girl  beside  him. 

Olivia,  however,  found  this  no  smiling  matter,  but  replied, 
with  deep  scorn: 

"  Surely,  Mrs.  Brander  can't  be  so  small-minded  as  that. 
I  can  assure  her  I  have  no  wish  to  intrench  upon  her  privi- 
leges; and,  with  only  eighteen  pounds  a  year  for  dress  and 
pocket-money,  I  am  not  likely  to  set  fashions  that  there  will 
be  a  rush  to  follow." 

"  You  might  set  a  fashion  in  faces,"  suggested  he. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  if  Mrs.  Brander  envies  me  the 
admiration  of  Mr.  Frederick  Williams — or,  indeed,  of  any  of 
the  jeunesse  doree  of  this  neighborhood — I  can  assure  her  that 
she  will  only  have  to  wait  a  very  little  while  before  my  unquali- 
fied disdain  will  bring  them  all  again  to  her  matronly  feet." 

"  Myself  among  the  number." 

*'  Oh,  Mr.  Brander,  I  didn't  count  you." 

"  But  in  mercy  you  must.  I  am  rather  gray  behind  the 
ears,  and  rather  lean  about  the  jaws;  but  let  me  still  think 
myself  as  eligible  a  bachelor  as  the  place  boasts. ' ' 

He  spoke  playfully,  but  something,  either  in  his  tone  or  in 
the  knowledge  she  had  of  his  life,  touched  her,  and  made  her 
voice  very  kind,  as  she  answered: 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  I  thought  you  too  old.  I  meant  that 
I  could  not  think  of  classing  you  with  a  creature  like  Frederick 
Williams." 

"  He  would  take  that  as  a  compliment." 

*'  I  don't  think  he  would  if  he  saw  me  look  at  him  and  then 
at  you  while  I  said  so." 

Mr.  Brander  pulled  up  his  clerical  collar,  and  affected  to 
give  his  hat  a  jaunty  cock. 


94  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"It's  so  long  since  I've  been  'buttered  up/ and  it's  so 
nice/'  said  he. 

"  Why,  you  have  a  great  following  among  the  ladies  of  the 
village. " 

"I  am  afraid  I  look  upon  them — though  without  so  much 
reason — much  as  you  do  upon  their  counterparts  of  the  op- 
posite sex." 

"  And  Mrs.  Brander,  doesn't  she,  in  return  for  your  serv- 
ices at  marketing  and  nailing  pictures,  *  butter  you  up  '  too?" 

The  gayety,  which  had  sat  so  pleasantly  on  the  usually  grave 
man,  suddenly  evaporated.  He  answered,  very  quietly: 

"  She  aalls  me  a  good  fellow,  and — yes,  I  think  she  means 
it." 

They  had  slackened  their  steps  a  little  as  they  drew  near  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  where  the  Chequers  hid  the  entrance  to 
Rishton  Hall  Farm.  They  had  stopped  together  at  the  bot- 
tom to  exchange  these  last  few  sentences  before  saying  fare- 
well. As  his  last  words  were  succeeded  by  a  moment's  pause, 
Mr.  Brander  glanced  up  the  hill  he  had  to  climb  to  the 
vicarage,  and  became  aware  of  his  brother's  portly  figure  de- 
scending the  slope  with  measured  steps  toward  them.  His 
cheeks  grew  pale;  the  last  gleam  of  vivacity  died  out  of  his 
face. 

The  change  caused  Olivia  to  look  in  the  same  direction,  and 
to  note  that  there  was  something  judicial  in  the  handsome 
vicar's  gait — something  mildly  apprehensive  in  the  expression 
of  his  face.  She  felt  an  impulse  of  indignation  against  both 
husband  and  wife  for  their  inexplicably  rigorous  attitude 
toward  Vernon  Brander  and  herself.  At  sight  of  his  brother, 
Vernon,  who  seemed  at  once  to  grow  cold  and  formal,  raised 
his  hat,  and  would  have  left  her  with  a  few  words  of  farewell. 
But  she  held  out  her  hand,  and.  as  he  took  it  with  a  flushing 
face,  she  retained  his  with  a  warm  clasp,  while  she  said: 

'*  I  am  going  to  get  papa  to  waylay  you,  Mr.  Brander,  as 
you  come  back  from  the  vicarage.  You  have  never  been  inside 
the  house  since  the  day  you  played  fairy  godmother  to  me  and 
poor  Lucy.  I  want  you  to  see  the  old  house  now  we  have 
made  it  again  a  home." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  Miss  Denison,"  faltered  poor  Ver- 
non, with  one  ear  for  her  kindly  words  and  the  other  for  his 
brother's  deliberately  approaching  footsteps.  "  You  are  very 
kind  to  me,"  he  added,  in  a  hasty  under-tone.  Then  in  his 
usual  voice,  "  Good-night,"  said  he,  as  she  released  his  hand, 
and,  with  a  bow  to  the  vicar,  turned  to  the  farm-yard  gate. 

With  a  few  steps  on  either  side — dignified  in  the  one,  hur- 


ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER.  95 

ried  and  nervous  in  the  other — the  brothers  met.  The  elder 
passed  his  arm  affectionately  within  that  of  the  younger,  and 
turned  to  walk  up  the  hill  with  him. 

"  Evelyn  began  to  be  afraid  you  had  forgotten  us  and  our 
dinner  in  pleasanter  society  than  ours/'  said  Meredith,  in  his 
genial  voice. 

If  Vernon,  as  his  nervous  manner  suggested,  was,  afraid  of 
his  brother,  the  fault  lay  in  his  own  conscience,  and  not  in  any 
coldness  or  harshness  on  the  part  of  the  Vicar  of  Eishton. 

"  No,"  said  Vernon,  hastily;  "  I  had  not  forgotten.  Of 
course  not.  Miss  Denison  was  annoyed  by  a  rough  as  she  was 
crossing  the  fields;  I  came  up  just  in  time — by  the  merest  ac- 
cident— and  I  could  do  no  less  than  see  her  home. " 

"  Of  course  not.  Not  a  very  great  penance  either.  What 
an  extremely  pleasant-looking  girl!" 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  vicar's  warm,  expansive  nature 
that  he  found  enjoyment  in  all  goodly  things;  and  he  never 
attempted  to  hide  the  pleasure  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  woman 
gave  him,  although,  as  in  the  present  instance,  he  remembered 
his  cloth  in  the  expression  of  it. 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  said  Vernon,  whose  candor  went 
a  step  further  than  his  brother's. 

"  And  amiable?" 

"  By  that  one  means  sympathetic  to  one's  self,  1  suppose. 
Yes,  I  find  her  amiable,"  said  the  younger  man,  with  a  sort  of 
dogged  defiance  in  his  tone. 

Then  you  are  pretty  intimate  already?" 

The  vicar  spoke  without  the  least  harshness,  but  the  answer 
came  hi  an  almost  sullen  tone,  as  if  Vernon's  own  conscience 
were  reproaching  him. 

"  Not  very.     This  is  the  fourth  time  I  have  met  her. " 

"  But,  dear  me,  with  these  sweet-faced  girls,  one  gets  over 
the  ground  so  fast!"  suggested  the  elder  more  genially  than 
ever. 

"  That  depends.  There's  not  much  about  me  to  fascinate 
a  beautiful  woman. " 

"  Oh,  1  didn't  mean  that — I  certainly  did  not  mean  that. 
But  we  had  looked  upon  you — you  had  taught  us  to  look  upon 
you — as  a  confirmed  bachelor;  almost  a  misogynist. " 

"  No,  not  that,"  interrupted  the  younger,  abruptly.  "  I 
have  always  admired  women;  in  my  way,  at  least,  as  much  as 
you  have  in  yours — unluckily  for  me,"  he  added,  in  a  bitter, 
mocking  tone. 

"  And  now  your  admiration  is  to  take  shape  in  a  definite 
preference  for  one?"  said  the  vicar,  rather  diffidently. 


96  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Vernon  was  restless  and  uneasy;  he  snapped  twigs  off  the 
hedge  as  he  walked  along,  and  seemed  unable  to  look  his 
brother  in  the  face. 

"  What  does  my  preference  matter?"  he  asked,  at  last, 
almost  fiercely.  "  What  did  it  matter  before,  except  to  bring 
upon  me  the  shame  and  shadow  of  my  whole  life?" 

His  brother  looked  shocked  and  alarmed  at  this  outburst. 
He  put  his  arm,  which  Vernon  had  thrown  off,  again  most 
persuasively  through  that  of  the  younger  man. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said,  very  earnestly,  very  affectionately; 
"  you  must  not  talk  like  that.  You  lead  a  life — voluntarily, 
mind,  else  there  would  be  no  grandeur,  no  dignity  in  it — so 
full  of  austerity  and  self-sacrifice  that  you  are  winning  your- 
self almost  the  reputation  of  a  saint.  You  have  shown  an  ex- 
ample of  courage  and  endurance  such  as  few  men  would  have 
the  steadfastness  to  follow — not  I,  for  one,  1  admit.  You  are 
loved  by  your  parishioners.  And  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to 
say  that  by  your  own  family — Evelyn,  myself,  and  the  little 
ones — you  are  adored/' 

The  Vicar  of  Kishton  watched  his  brother's  face  closely  as 
he  pronounced  these  words  in  full  tones  of  deep  feeling.  They 
took  effect  at  once.  The  thin,  sensitive  face  relaxed,  and  a 
faint  smile  hovered  on  Vernon's  lips  as  he  answered : 

"  You  are  all  very  good  to  me,  and  I  love  you  for  it;  but 
you  don't  need  to  be  told  that  now.  As  for  all  that  about  my 
being  a  saint  and  a  martyr,  it  is  nonsense,  and  only  a  kind 
way  of  putting  the  fact  that  ten  years  ago—" 

"  Now  why  trouble  yourself  about  what  happened  ten  years 
ago?"  interrupted  the  vicar  in  grave  but  most  gentle  tones. 
"  The  evil  wrought  then  has  been  bitterly  repented  of,  and 
atoned  for  in  a  manner  so  noble  that  I  can  scarcely  speak  of  it 
without  tears." 

"Noble?  Nonsense!  There  was  nothing  in  what  I  have 
done  but  the  outcome  of  a  most  commonplace  human  feeling. 
1  don't  wish  to  deceive  you  about  that,  or  get  more  credit  than 
is  due  to  me." 

"  Well,  I  will  say  no  more  on  the  point.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  contradict  you.  For,  whatever  may  have  been  our  relative 
positions  ten  years  ago,  your  life  since  then  has  made  you  a 
better  man  than  I,  and  I  bow  to  you  as  to  my  superior. " 

It  was  very  gracefully  said,  with  a  warmth  and  sincerity  of 
tone  which  made  it  no  empty  compliment  from  the  handsome, 
much-revered  vicar  to  the  hermit-parson  of  ruinous  St.  Cuth- 
bert's.  The  latter  received  it  with  a  restive,  deprecatory,  im- 
patient wave  of  the  hand;  but  yet  a  keen  observer,  who  had 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  <f? 

looked  from  the  one  face  to  the  other  at  that  moment,  would 
almost  have  been  inclined  to  say  that  the  elder,  whether  or  not 
he  quite  meant  what  he  said,  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  that 
the  worn  features  and  keen  gray  eyes  of  the  younger  man  re- 
vealed higher  capacities  for  good  than  the  bland,  benevolent, 
and  good-humored  countenance  of  his  brother.  Ten  years 
ago,  before  the  tragic  event  which  had  been  the  turning  point 
of  Vernon's  life,  the  reverse  of  this  would  have  been  true. 
Passionate,  reckless,  and  hot-tempered,  he  would  have  looked, 
beside  his  open-faced  brother,  like  the  evil  angel  beside  the 
good.  But  a  decade  of  unruffled  prosperity  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  same  period  of  austere  self-sacrifice  on  the  other,  had 
told  their  tale;  and  the  man  over  whom  there  hung  the  shadow 
of  a  fearful  crime  now  threatened,  by  long  humility  and  devo- 
tion, to  oust  from  the  first  place  in  the  esteem  of  the  rough 
mining  population  the  irreproachable  and  kindly  Vicar  of 
Rishton  himself. 

Meredith  had  spoken  the  last  words  in  a  decisive  tone,  as  if 
he  considered  the  discussion  at  an  end.  But  from  the  expres- 
sion of  his  brother's  face,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  yet  some- 
thing to  say — something  of  more  import  than  anything  that 
had  yet  passed  between  them. 

"  You  have  tried  me  long  enough  to  trust  my  discretion  a 
little,  Meredith;  but  I  don't  know  how  you  will  take  what  J 
am  going  to  tell  you."  He  hurried  on  in  an  agitated  voice, 
without  looking  his  brother  in  the  face.  "  I  have  never  been 
a  misogynist;  perhaps  I  shall  not  always  be  a  bachelor.  Mind, 
I  only  say  perhaps." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  They  tramped  up  the  hill  side  by 
side  without  exchanging  so  much  as  a  look,  until  the  pretty 
gables  of  the  vicarage  were  in  sight,  peeping  out  behind  the 
massive  evergreens  and  the  yet  bare  lilac  branches  of  the 
vicar's  garden.  Then  Meredith  spoke,  in  the  most  subdued 
and  gentlest  of  voices: 

"  You  are  the  best,  indeed,  the  only  possible  judge  of  your 
own  conduct,  Vernon;  but  I  fear  that,  to  a  nature  like  yours, 
the  thought  of  having  caused  suffering  to  a  woman  you  love 
will  some  day  be  very  bitter." 

His  voice  seemed  to  fade  away  on  the  last  words,  as  it  did  at 
the  pathetic  points  of  his  sermons.  His  eloquence  again  took 
effect  on  the  sensitive  Vernon. 

"  My  wife — if,  indeed,  I  ever  have  a  wife — should  never  know 
the  truth,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  husky  voice. 

"  Oh,  but  she  will!"  said  Meredith,  with  energy.  "  Do  not 
deceive  yourself  on  that  point;  you  can  not  deceive  me.  No 

4 


98  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE. 

one  can  prevent  your  marrying;  I,  for  one,  shall  never  utter 
another  word  against  such  a  step;  but,  if  you  do  take  it,  your 
ten  years'  silence,  as  far  as  the  feelings  of  others  are  con- 
cerned, will  have  been  in  vain." 

There  was  another  pause — a  short  one,  this  time.  Then 
Vernon  spoke,  in  a  harsh  and  broken  voice: 

"  Be  satisfied.  No  woman  shall  ever  suffer  through  me — 
again.  I  will  bear  it  to  the  end  —alone. " 

"  Spoken  bravely — spoken  like  yourself,"  began  the  Vicar 
of  Eishton,  in  his  usual  firm  and  cheerful  tones.  He  was 
about  to  say  more,  when  his  speech  was  checked  by  the  sight 
of  a  man's  face  peering  over  the  wall  of  a  small,  neglected 
garden,  which  adjoined  the  vicar's  own  premises  on  a  lower 
level  of  the  hill. 

The  face  was  that  of  a  stranger,  but  of  a  stranger  who  ap- 
parently took  a  deep  interest  in  his  surroundings.  Meredith 
Brander  examined  his  features  with  frank  and  rather  puzzled 
interest,  while  Vernon  scanned  the  face  with  an  intentness 
which  almost  savored  of  dread.  The  stranger,  on  his  side, 
gave  them  a  nod  of  free-and-easy  greeting,  which  they  returned 
by  a  more  conventional  salute,  as  they  proceeded  up  the  hill. 

"  Who  is  that  man?"  asked  Meredith,  as  if  trying  to  recall 
some  memory  connected  with  the  features  he  had  just  seen. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  brother,  in  a  troubled  voice. 
His  brother  looked  inquiringly. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  before?  I  can't  quite  make  up  my 
mind  whether  he  is  a  stranger  to  me  or  not." 

"  He  is  a  stranger,"  said  Vernon;  "  probably  the  man  who 
has  taken  the  cottage.  I  heard  this  morning  that  it  was  let 
at  last." 

"  You  don't  know  his  name,  then?" 

"  Mat  Oldshaw,  who  told  me,  did  not  mention  his  name." 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject  of  the  stranger  by  either  of 
the  brothers,  both  of  whom  remained  apparently  in  deep 
thought  for  the  few  remaining  steps  of  their  walk. 

The  gravity  of  both  faces  lightened  when,  on  reaching  the 
vicarage,  the  sounds  of  childish  voices  broke  upon  their  ears. 
Mrs.  Meredith  Brander  prided  herself  on  nothing  so  much  as 
on  being  a  "  sensible  woman;"  and,  as  there  is  no  sign  of  want 
of  sense  in  a  woman  so  marked  as  the  spoiling  of  children,  the 
event  went  a  little  way  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  kept  her 
little  daughter  of  ten  and  small  son  of  six  in  somewhat  rigor- 
pus  subjection.  Not  only  did  she  honor  the  old-fashioned  say- 
ing that  "  children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,"  but  she 
even  went  so  far  as  to  think  that  the  less  seen  of  them  the  bet- 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  91 

ter.  Her  husband,  who  was  an  affectionate  and  even  demon- 
strative father,  would  have  had  them  much  more  about  the 
house;  but  he  yielded  in  all  domestic  matters  implicitly  to  his 
wife's  ruling,  and,  as  she  had  decreed  that  the  proper  place 
for  children  was  the  nursery,  in  the  nursery  they  for  the  most 
part  remained.  Therefore,  the  children  had  come  back  in  a 
cab  with  the  luggage,  instead  of  with  papa  and  mamma,  in 
the  pony-carriage,  and  they  were  on  their  way  up  the  stairs 
toward  their  own  domain  when  their  father  and  uncle  came  in 
and  caught  them. 

Vernon  Brander's  haggard  face  lighted  up  with  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  tenderness  as  the  little  girl  turned  on  hearing  the 
gentlemen's  footsteps,  and,  with  a  shrill  cry  of  childish  delight, 
ran  down  a  few  steps,  and  flung  her  little  arms  tempestuously 
round  his  neck. 

"  Uncle  Vernie!  Uncle  Vernie!"  she  cooed  breathlessly  into 
his  ear.  "  Oh,  I  have  such  a  lot  to  tell  you,  and  I've  such  a 
heap  of  shells  for  you,  and  some  sea- weed  for  you  to  dry;  and, 
oh!  I  have  so  wanted  to  see  you,  and  have  you  with  us  there 
by  the  sea.  It  would  have  been  lovely  if  only  you'd  been 
there!" 

"  Come,  come,  you  carneying,  blarneying,  little  sixpenn'orth 
of  halfpence,"  said  Uncle  Vernon,  seating  himself  on  the  stairs 
and  putting  his  arm  affectionately  around  her  little  waist, 
"  don't  pretend  it  wasn't  lovely  without  me,  or  that  you're 
glad  the  holiday's  over  so  that  you  can  see  your  old  uncle 
again. " 

"  But  1  am,  though,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not,"  said 
the  child,  gravely,  looking  into  the  wrinkles  of  the  clergy- 
man's face  with  affectionate  solicitude.  "  The  sea  was  beauti- 
ful, and  it  was  nice  to  have  no  lessons,  and  to  see  the  pretty 
people,  and  to  have  new  walks  instead  of  the  old  ones  we're  so 
tired  of.  But  there  was  no  one  to  tell  what  one  thought,  no 
one  to  look  at  me  like  you  look,  Uncle  Vernie — no  one  to  hug 
like  this." 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  crushed  up  his  head 
and  face  in  a  stifling  embrace. 

At  that  moment  the  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Brander,  handsome,  erect,  and  neat  as  a  statue,  came  upon 
the  scene. 

"  Kate,  you  are  forgetting  yourself,  my  dear,"  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  gentle  but  decided  reproof.  "  Your  uncle  does  not 
mind  a  kiss,  but  a  bear's  hug  is  neither  lady-like  nor  wel- 
come. " 

The  child  withdrew  her  arms  at  once,  and  relapsed  into  the 


100  ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER. 

unnatural  demeanor  of  a  sensitive  child  snubbed.  Vernon 
grew  red,  and  passed  his  hand  over  the  little  girl's  fair  head 
with  more  than  paternal  tenderness. 

"  Don't  be  hard  upon  the  child,  Evelyn,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "  You  who  have  children  of  your  own  don't  know 
what  pleasure  that  *  bear's  hug  '  can  give  to  a  childless  man." 

Meredith  Brander,  who  had  been  playing  with  his  little  boy, 
looked  uneasily  toward  his  brother  at  this  speech. 

"  What  a  fuss  you  make  about  that  child!"  said  Mrs.  Bran- 
der, lightly,  as  if  anxious  to  turn  the  conversation. 

And,  coming  to  the  staircase,  she  picked  up  the  little  girl's 
hat,  which  had  fallen  off  in  the  course  of  her  excited  greetings, 
and  telling  her  to  run  upstairs  and  get  her  face  washed,  Mrs. 
Brander  invited  her  brother-in-law,  with  a  welcoming  gesture, 
to  come  with  her  into  the  drawing-room. 

Vernon  followed  her  with  scarcely  disguised  reluctance, 
which  the  lady  did  not  fail  to  perceive. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Vernon?"  she  asked,  as  she 
seated  herself  by  an  open  work-basket,  and  immediately  began 
operations  upon  an  embroidered  pinafore.  "  There  is  a  change 
in  you  since  we  went  away;  you  have  either  grown  less  sociable, 
or  else  you  have  found  some  society  more  congenial  than  ours. 
Sit  down;  that  pacing  to  and  fro  fidgets  me." 

Vernon  stopped  in  front  of  her,  but  did  not  seat  himself. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  began,  abruptly,  "  that  1  have  gone 
through  a  lengthy  catechism  of  this  sort  at  the  hands  of  your 
husband?  I  have  given  the  fullest  answers  to  all  his  questions, 
and  he  can  pass  on  to  you  any  information  you  may  require." 

In  spite  of  the  peremptoriness  of  his  words,  his  tone  was 
almost  pleading;  and  in  his  face,  as  he  looked  down  upon  her, 
there  was  an  expression  of  chivalrous  kindliness  which  took  all 
harshness  out  of  his  speech. 

Mrs.  Brander,  glancing  up  at  him,  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  I  was  almost  beginning  to  fear,  Vernon,  that  you  had 
formed,  or  were  on  the  point  of  forming,  new  ties  which  would 
make  you  forget  the  old  ones." 

Mrs.  Brander 's  voice  was  not  capable  of  expressing  much 
deep  emotion;  but  she  lowered  it,  as  she  said  these  words,  to 
the  softest  pitch  it  could  reach. 

"  Forget!"  he  echoed.  "  That  is  a  process  my  mind  is  in- 
capable of.  I  think  you  know  that,  Evelyn." 

She  gave  him  a  straightforwardly  affectionate  look  out  of 
her  handsome  eyes. 

"Perhaps  I  do,  Vernon,"  she  said,  gently.     "Perhaps  I 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  101 

think  your  mind  incapable  of  any  process  by  which  you  could 
bring  suffering  upon  another  person." 

Vernon  looked  down  into  her  beautiful  face  critically. 
There  was  genuine  anxiety  in  her  expression,  but  it  did  not 
touch  him  as  much  as  a  similar  expression  on  those  comely 
features  had  been  wont  to  do.  For  the  last  few  weeks  he  had 
been  haunted  by  another  woman's  face,  on  which  betrayed 
most  ingenuously  every  thought  of  the  owner's  mind,  every 
impulse  of  a  warm  young  heart.  Mrs.  Brander  was  intelligent 
enough  to  have  an  idea  of  the  truth;  and  when  she  saw  that 
her  soft  speech  left  him  comparatively  cold,  she  did  not  waste 
another  on  him,  but  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  sigh,  and  bent 
over  her  table  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  not  see  her  face. 
The  sensitive  Vernon  instantly  began  to  imagine  tears  in  her 
eyes,  drawn  forth  by  his  own  hardness.  He  was  seeking  words 
to  comfort  her  when  the  door  opened,  and  Meredith  came  in. 
His  genial  presence  seemed  on  the  instant  to  relieve  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  other  two. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  my  dear,"  he  began  to  his  wife,  "  that 
Kitty  is  not  looking  any  the  better  for  her  stay  at  Bourne- 
mouth. I  went  upstairs  with  the  children  just  now,  and  I  was 
quite  struck  with  the  paleness  of  the  child's  cheeks." 

As  the  vicar  uttered  these  words,  a  change  came  rapidly  over 
his  brother's  face.  He  glanced  from  father  to  mother  with  an 
expression  of  the  deepest  anxiety,  which  Mrs.  Brander,  while 
answering  her  husband  in  calm  and  measured  tones,  did  not 
fail  to  note. 

"  I  think  you  worry  yourself  unnecessarily  about  the  child. 
She's  tired  now  after  her  journey;  she  will  probably  look  all 
right  again  to-morrow." 

The  vicar  allowed  himself  to  be  pacified  by  his  wife's  assur- 
ances, and,  leading  his  brother  away  to  the  fire-place,  they  oc- 
cupied themselves,  until  the  announcement  of  dinner,  in  dis- 
cussing the  trifling  events  which  had  happened  in  the  parish 
during  the  vicar's  absence.  Mrs.  Brander  listened  with  an 
especially  attentive  ear  while  her  brother-in-law  gave  a  some- 
what detailed  account  of  the  arrival  of  the  new  occupants  of 
Rishton  Hall  Farm,  including,  as  it  necessarily  did,  the  story 
of  his  own  assistance  at  their  installation. 

Mrs.  Brander  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  herself  as  to  the 
strong  measure  of  interest  which  the  beautiful  young  farmer's 
daughter  had  excited  in  Vernon.  Neither  did  she  disguise 
from  herself  the  anxiety  and  annoyance  which  this  discovery 
caused  her.  Instead,  however,  of  indulging  in  any  feelings  of 
feminine  jealousy,  she  set  herself  to  try  to  devise  a  way  of 


102  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ousting  this  rival.  A  ray  of  light  broke  suddenly  over  Her 
handsome  face. 

"  When  I  spoke  of  my  own  suffering,  he  was  certainly  not 
so  much  touched  as  he  used  to  be,"  she  reflected.  "  On  the 
other  hand,  anything  connected  with  Kitty  seems  to  move  him 
more  than  ever.  I  must  play  Kitty  against  this  Miss  Deni- 
son." 

And,  without  any  of  the  pangs  of  a  jealous  woman,  Mrs. 
Brander,  with  a  glance  at  her  innocent  brother-in-law,  made  a 
calm  resolution  as  to  the  part  she  should  play  in  what  she  per- 
ceived to  be  an  incipient  love  affair. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BRANDER  left  his  brother's  house  that  evening  in 
a  frenzy  of  doubt  and  uncertainty,  such  as  his  passionate,  self- 
torturing  nature  was  liable  to.  He  had  so  long  been  bound  in 
a  dutiful  and  chivalrous  vassalage  to  his  sister-in-law,  seeing 
her  faults  without  being  repelled  by  them,  and  in  all  things 
doing  her  reverent  homage  as  to  his  early  ideal,  that  it  came 
upon  him  with  a  shock  to  discover  suddenly,  as  he  had  done 
this  evening,  that  she  had  fallen  from  that  high  place  in  her 
imagination.  He  tried  in  vain  to  hide  from  himself  the  fact 
that  this  change  in  his  feelings  was  due  to  the  appearance  on 
the  scene  of  a  rival  who  was  carrying  away  all  before  her. 
Mrs.  Brander  had,  on  previous  occasions,  scoffed  at  his  adora- 
tion of  children;  she  had  often  shown  clearly  how  little  she 
cared  for  his  feelings;  but  never  before  to-night  had  she  seemed 
to  him  cold,  and  hard,  and  selfish;  never  before  had  it  oc- 
curred to  him  to  think  how  lacking  she  was  in  feminine  soft- 
ness and  charm. 

Following  on  this  discovery  came  the  inevitable  conscious- 
ness who  it  was  that  had  brought  about  this  knowledge.  If  he 
had  not  looked  lately  into  a  softer  pair  of  eyes,  if  he  had  not 
felt  the  touch  of  a  warmer  hand,  if,  in  short,  he  had  never  met 
Olivia  Denison,  he  would  have  gone  on  comfortably  in  his 
platonic  worship  of  the  only  woman  of  his  acquaintance  who 
had  any  of  those  elements  of  beauty  and  grace  which  were 
necessary  to  his  somewhat  fastidious  standard.  But  the  ad- 
vent of  the  beautiful,  warm-hearted,  impulsive  young  girl  had 
changed  all  that;  and  Vernon,  as  he  remembered  the  promises 
he  had  made  to  his  brother  and  his  brother's  wife,  and  recog- 
nized clearly  enough  that  by  the  circumstances  of  his  life  he 
was  bound  to  remain  in  bachelor  loneliness,  felt  that  the  bur- 
den of  a  by-gone  sin  was  heavier  upon  him  than  he  could  bear. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  103 

He  was  going  gloomily  down  the  hill,  and  had  nearly  reached 
the  foot  of  it,  when  a  rather  rough  voice,  with  an  inflection 
which  was  un-English  and  strange,  addressed  him  quite  eloe 
to  his  ear. 

"  Could  you  oblige  me  with  a  light?" 

Vernon,  who  had  his  pipe  between  his  lips,  stopped,  and 
offered  the  stranger  his  match-box.  The  night  was  dark,  but 
he  was  able  to  recognize  in  this  abrupt-mannered  person  the 
man  he  and  Meredith  had  seen  that  evening  leaning  on  the 
garden  wall  of  the  cottage  adjoining  the  vicarage.  There 
had  been  something  suspicious  about  the  stranger's  manner 
then;  there  was  something  more  now.  He  took  the  prof- 
fered match-box,  struck  a  light,  and,  instead  of  applying  it  to 
the  cigar  he  had  ready  in  his  mouth,  held  it  close  enough  to 
Vernon's  face  to  get  a  good  view  of  every  feature. 

The  clergyman,  returning  his  gaze,  grew  deadly  pale.  He 
did  not  flinch,  however,  but  settling  his  face  with  the  hard  de- 
termination of  a  man  accustomed  to  bear  pain,  submitted  to 
the  scrutiny  in  dogged  silence. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  stranger,  slowly,  as  he  threw  away 
the  match,  which  had  burned  down,  and  struck  another,  with 
which  he  proceeded  to  light  his  cigar.  ' '  You  are  the  first 
person  about  here  who  has  shown  what  in  other  parts  we 
should  call  common  civility.  A  rough  lot,  these  Yorkshire 
men!" 

"  And  they  don't  always  improve  much  in  manners  by 
going  abroad/'  said  Vernon,  quietly. 

The  other  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  peering  at  him  m 
the  darkness.  Then  he  spoke  again,  more  courteously  than 
before. 

"  You  take  me  for  a  Yorkshireman,  then?" 

"  Yes;  I  can  hear  the  Yorkshire  burr  through  some  accent 
you  have  picked  up  since." 

"  Well,  you're  a  smart  chap  for  a  parson,"  said  the  other, 
approvingly.  "  You'll  excuse  my  frankness;  but  I'm  a  plain 
man,  and  I  dare  say  my  manners  are  none  the  more  polished 
for  fifteen  years  spent  among  cattle-drovers.  They're  not  the 
sort  of  company  to  make  one  fit  for  Buckingham  Palace. " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Vernon.  "  And  you  have  said  good- 
bye to  them,  and  come  back  to  settle  down  in  your  native 
county?" 

"  For  a  little  while — a  year,  or  may  be  two,"  answered  the 
stranger  with  great  deliberateness.  "  I  haven't  come  over 
here  to  sit  still  and  twiddle  my  thumbs  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 


101  ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWER. 

"  Why,  there's  plenty  of  work  to  be  done  here  in  the  old 
country." 

"  Yes,  it's  work  brings  me  over  here,  and  hard  work  too,  by 
what  I  hear,"  said  the  other,  looking  penetratingly  at  the 
clergyman  through  shrewd,  half -shut  eyes. 

He  gave  the  impression  of  being  able  to  see  in  the  dark  as 
well  as  any  owl,  and  Vernon  felt  that  he  himself  was  still  being 
subjected  to  the  same  keen  inspection  which  had  been  begun 
by  the  light  of  the  match.  He,  on  his  side,  could  see  enough 
of  the  stranger's  appearance  to  feel  curiously  interested  in 
him.  This  abrupt  and  somewhat  uncouth  person  was  a  man 
whose  age  was  difficult  to  guess.  That  he  was  still  in  the 
vigor  and  prime  of  life  was  evident,  but  it  was  not  so  certain 
whether  the  rugged  furrows  in  his  face,  and  a  certain  deliber- 
ateness  of  speech  and  action,  were  signs  of  approaching  middle 
age,  or  the  result  of  heavy  responsibilities  and  hard  work 
begun  early  in  life.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was  covered 
and  much  concealed  by  a  short  beard  of  a  fashion  long  grown 
obsolete  in  England;  he  was  dressed  with  that  sort  of  solid  re- 
spectability which  disregards  expense  and  also  the  fashion  of 
the  moment,  while  a  huge  gold  watch-chain,  to  which  was  at- 
tached a  bunch  of  heavy  and  handsome  seals,  gave  the  final 
touch  to  a  get-up  which  was  nothing  if  not  confidence-inspiring. 
The  man  looked  both  shrewd  and  honest,  particularly  the 
former;  Vernon  felt  every  moment  more  and  more  eagerly  in- 
terested as  to  the  reason  of  his  presence  in  the  village. 

"  You  know  that  we  parsons  are  privileged  impertinente?" 
began  Vernon,  after  a  short  pause. 

'  Yes,"  answered  the  stranger,  promptly. 

"  Perhaps  you  know  too  that  I  have  been  until  to-day 
'  deputy  shepherd  '  here  at  Rishton?" 

"  I  know  that  too,"  admitted  the  other. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  let  me  ask  if  you  are  the  new  ten- 
ant of  Church  Cottage?" 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  gained  or  lost  by  admitting  that  I 
am;  and  further,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'd  as  soon  the 
cottage  were  a  little  further  off  from  the  church.  One  can't 
expect  to  live  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  for  nothing,  and  with  a 
parson  living  next  door,  and  religious  consolation  therefore 
always  turned  on,  I  shall  feel,  so  to  speak,  always  under  the 
tap." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that  with  my  brother,"  said  Ver- 
non, smiling.  "  I  suppose  there  never  was  a  man  with  less 
professional  cant  about  him.  He'll  talk  to  a  neighbor  about 
his  fruit-trees,  his  pigs,  his  poultry,  and  everything  that  is  his, 


ST.    CUTHBEET'S    TOWER.  105 

but  never  a  word  of  religion,  unless  the  subject  is  introduced 
by  somebody  else. " 

"  I  see;  won't  give  professional  advice  for  nothing?  Well, 
I  respect  him  for  it;  there's  no  good  in  making  your  wares  too 
cheap.  Guess  your  brother  and  me'll  get  along. " 

What  could  the  work  be  which  brought  this  keen-eyed, 
prosperous-looking  colonist — for  a  colonist  it  was  not  difficult 
to  guess  that  he  must  be — to  a  sleepy  little  hole  like  Rishton, 
where  the  commerce  was  restricted  to  the  weekly  buying  and 
selling  of  Matherham  market,  and  to  the  still  humbler  traffic 
in  the  small  wares,  of  half  a  dozen  puny  village  shops?  Ver- 
non  was  shy  of  asking  him  point-blank  the  nature  of  his  work; 
indeed,  something  in  the  stranger's  manner  intimated  pretty 
plainly  that  he  would  not  have  given  the  required  information. 
And  no  hints  sufficed  to  draw  him  out.  The  Vicar  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  made  one  such  attempt,  which  failed  most  signally. 

"  You  will  find  also,"  said  he,  "  that  my  brother  is  a  prac- 
tical man,  and  any  help  that  he  can  give  you  in  the  work  you 
speak  of  he  will  offer  most  willingly,  I  know. " 

But  to  this  speech  the  first  reply  of  the  colonist  was  a  sar- 
donic laugh. 

"  I  dare  say  he  will,"  said  he,  dryly,  when  his  hard  merri- 
ment had  suddenly  ceased.  "  For  the  matter  of  that,  a  man 
with  a  serious  object  before  him,  who  has  his  head  screwed  on 
the  right  way,  can  get  help  of  some  sort  from  everybody  he 
comes  nigh  to.  And  so,  Mr.  Brander,  I  make  no  doubt  that 
I  shall  get  assistance  in  my  work,  not  only  from  your  brother, 
but  from  yourself. " 

And  with  these  words,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  some  significance, 
he  turned  on  his  heel  with  an  abrupt  nod,  and  made  his  way 
with  characteristically  heavy  and  deliberate  steps  toward  the 
gate  of  the  cottage. 

Vernon  Brander  watched  the  solidly  built  figure  disappear- 
ing in  the  dusk,  and  then  proceeded  on  his  way  down  the  hill 
in  some  agitation  of  spirit.  The  shadow  of  the  old  crime  was 
creeping  up  again;  the  tragedy  which  ten  years  had  not  lived 
down  was  reappearing  with  a  new  and  ghastly  vividness  in  the 
presence  of  that  matter-of-fact  stranger.  Who  he  might  be 
Vernon  could  scarcely  guess;  what  the  nature  of  his  work  was 
in  a  quiet  village  flashed  upon  him  with  an  intuition  which 
left  no  room  for  doubt.  The  feelings  produced  by  this  thought 
were  not  all  gloomy;  a  certain  hungry  look,  which  betokened 
perhaps  that  even  open  shame  would  be  welcome  after  ten 
years  of  silent  ignominy,  burned  in  the  clergyman's  dark  eyes 
as  he  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  into  the  blue-black  night  sky 


106  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

above  him  with,  a  piercing  intentness  which  seemed  to  be  try- 
ing to  fathom  the  mysteries  of  the  future. 

On  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  he  was  startled  out  of 
his  reverie  by  a  bright  girl's  voice  and  a  gentle  touch  on  his 
arm.  He  stopped  short  and  lowered  his  head  dreamily,  almost 
inclined  to  think,  in  the  high  state  of  excitement  to  which  he 
had  been  worked,  that  the  sweet  voice,  the  kindly  touch,  were 
a  prophecy  of  happiness  rather  than  the  commonplace  incident 
of  an  every-day  greeting.  The  next  moment,  however,  he 
came  fully  to  himself,  and  found  that  he  was  in  the  presence, 
not  only  of  Olivia  Denison,  but  of  her  father. 

"  Mr.  Brander,  come  down  from  the  clouds  if  you  please, 
and  leave  your  next  Sunday's  sermon  to  take  care  of  itself  for 
a  little  while.  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  father." 

Mr.  Denison,  a  tall,  strikingly  handsome  man  of  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  with  a  gentle,  kindly  face  entirely  destitute  of 
any  trace  of  his  daughter's  energy  and  impulsive  frankness, 
held  out  his  hand  with  a  very  willing  smile. 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Bran- 
der, and  to  be  able  to  thank  you  for  your  great  kindness  to  my 
little  daughter  here." 

He  patted  Olivia's  shoulder  affectionately,  but  it  seemed  to 
the  clergyman,  as  he  looked  from  the  one  face  to  the  other, 
that  the  action  was  scarcely  typical  of  the  mutual  relations  be- 
tween gentle,  vacillating  father  and  quick-witted,  active 
daughter. 

"  Miss  Denison  is  so  much  more  valiant  and  self -helpful 
than  most  young  ladies  that  she  spurs  one  up  to  do  more  for 
her  than  one  would  for  others,"  said  Vernon. 

"  Yet  this  afternoon  you  would  not  allow  that  I  could  help 
papa,"  put  in  Olivia,  reproachfully. 

"  Didn't  I  rather  suggest  that  the  help  you  really  gave  was 
of  a  different  kind  from  what  you  imagined?" 

"  She  gives  me  help  of  all  kinds,"  said  her  father,  affection- 
ately. "  She's  my  clerk  and  my  comforter;  and  1  think  if  the 
farm-hands  struck  work,  she'd  take  to  the  plow  as  naturally  as 
she's  taken  to  the  poultry." 

"  Well,  I'd  certainly  try  my  hand  at  it,"  said  the  girl, 
laughing.  "  I  suppose  the  chief  qualifications  are  a  steady 
hand  and  a  correct  eye,  and  both  those  I've  acquired  at  bill- 
iards." 

' '  My  dear  Olivia,  you  mustn't  own  to  playing  billiards  be- 
fore a  clergyman!" 

"  And  why  not,  Mr.  Denison?"  asked  Vernon.  "  I  love  a 
good  game  of  billiards  myself;  and  the  strongest  reasons  that 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  107 

keep  me  out  of  old  Williams's  billiard-room  up  at  the  Manor 
Hall  are  old  Williams's  inability  to  play  a  decent  game  and 
his  son's  inability  to  make  a  decent  remark. " 

Olivia  gave  an  exclamation  of  disgust  at  this  passing  allusion 
to  her  importunate  admirer;  Mr.  Denison  seemed  relieved  by 
the  clergyman's  admission. 

"  I've  not  come  much  in  contact  with  gentlemen  of  your 
calling,"  said  he;  "  and  I  have  rather  a  feeling  that  I  muet 
be  on  my  best  behavior  before  them." 

"  A  very  proper  feeling,  and  one  that  1  wish  you  could  com- 
municate to  some  of  the  gentlemen  engaged  in  mining  occupa- 
tions among  my  parishioners.  It's  a  much  healthier  symptom 
than  throwing  bricks. " 

"  Do  they  throw  bricks  at  you?"  asked  Olivia,  indignantly. 

"  Not  so  many  as  they  used  to,"  said  Vernon,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  which  was,  however,  not  discernible  in  the  increas- 
ing darkness.  "  I  found  a  way  to  cure  them  of  that." 

r'  What  was  that?" 

"  1  threw  them  back." 

Mr.  Denison  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  the  fact  that  his  re- 
spect for  and  appreciation  of  the  Church  were  rising  rapidly. 
It  was  with  a  cordiality  very  different  from  the  formal  grati- 
tude he  had  shown  at  the  outset  that  he  presently  begged  the 
clergyman  to  do  himself  and  his  wife  the  pleasure  of  lunching 
with  them  on  the  following  or  an  early  day. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  introduce  you  to  my  wife,"  said  he. 
"  She  used  to  try  hard  to  get  me  to  receive  what  I  irreverently 
called  her  '  pet  parsons;'  but  I  had  heard  them  preach,  and 
that  was  enough  for  me.  Now  you  see  I  can  bring  forward  a 
candidate  of  my  own. " 

"  That's  unfortunate,  because  I  can't  come  to-morrow;  and 
next  day  is  Sunday.  And  perhaps,  if  you  hear  me  preach, 
you  may  want  to  retract  your  invitation." 

"  Well,  we  must  chance  that,"  said  Mr.  Denison,  smiling. 
"  But  I  can  trust  a  par — no,  I  mean  a  clergyman,  who  knows 
something  about  the  tables  of  slate  as  well  as  the  tables  of 
stone.  Remember,  we  are  only  poor  farmer  folk  now;  the 
glory  of  Streatham  has  departed.  But  we  shall  make  you 
heartily  welcome;  and  you  must  forgive  the  absence  of  cham- 
pagne. Now,  what  day  will  you  come?" 

"  May  1  say  this  day  week?"  said  Vernon,  after  considering 
a  moment.  For  the  next  few  days  I  have  work  to  do  a  long 
way  off  which  will  make  any  sort  of  meal  an  impossibility.  I 
shall  live  upon  bread  and  coal-dust;  and  you  must  not  be  sur- 
prised if  I  turn  up  with  a  complexion  of  Othello,  and  with  a 


108  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

little  of  his  savagery,  after  a  week's  intercourse  with  the 
blackest  and  roughest  race  in  Yorkshire/' 

The  following  Friday  was,  therefore,  fixed  upon  as  the  day 
on  which  the  Eeverend  Vernon  Brander  was  to  mal^e  formal 
acquaintance  with  Eishton  Hall  Farm  and  its  new  masters. 
And,  with  a  mutual  liking  which  opened  a  pleasant  prospect 
of  future  acquaintance,  the  two  gentlemen  bade  each  other 
good-night,  and  separated. 

But  if  they  had  only  known  it,  there  was  a  very  strong  wom- 
an's will  working  against  any  such  happy  consummation. 
Mrs.  Meredith  Brander,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  had  conceived 
the  intention  of  doing  what  she  could  to  form  an  impassable 
bridge  between  her  brother-in-law  and  the  household  at  Rish- 
ton  Hall  Farm.  She  shrewdly  guessed  that  her  best  chance 
lay  through  the  step-mother;  but  for  a  day  or  two  she  took  no 
active  steps,  contenting  herself  with  gleaning  all  the  informa- 
tion she  could  concerning  the  character  and  habits  of  each 
member  of  the  Denison  family.  Mr.  Denison,  she  decided, 
was  not  of  much  account;  Mrs.  Denison,  a  vain,  half -educated 
woman,  exalted  above  her  natural  station,  ought,  with  judi- 
cious treatment,  to  be  easy  to  deal  with.  It  was  with  the  hand- 
some, high-spirited  Olivia  herself  that  the  difficulty  lay,  and 
Mrs.  Brander  felt  that  she  must  proceed  with  caution. 

In  the  meantime,  the  new  inmate  of  the  cottage  was  excit- 
ing much  general  interest  and  some  suspicion.  He  lived  en- 
tirely by  himself,  but  for  such  companionship  as  was  afforded 
him  by  Mrs.  Wall,  during  the  two  or  three  hours  a  day  when 
she  jogged  slowly  through  his  apartments  with  a  broom  and  a 
pail,  and  generally  "  did  for  "  him.  He  drove  such  a  hard 
bargain  with  this  lady,  and  lived  so  simply,  that  the  belief 
soon  spread  among  the  villagers  that  he  was  very  poor,  that 
his  big  watch-chain  was  brass,  and  that  his  solid  manner  and 
imperative  speech  were  mere  empty  "  swagger." 

The  Reverend  Meredith  Brander  was  shrewd  enough  to  think 
differently.  There  was  a  weight  and  solidity  about  the  speech 
and  manner  of  the  new-comer  which  it  is  not  given  to  the 
mere  waifs  and  strays  of  the  earth  to  acquire.  When  he  passed 
an  opinion,  which  was  seldom,  for  he  was  apparently  of  re- 
ticent disposition,  it  was  with  the  evident  belief,  not  only  that 
it  was  worth  listening  to,  but  that  it  would  be  listened  to. 
The  vicar  tried  hard,  in  every  decent  and  graceful  way,  to  win 
from  him  some  information  as  to  who  he  was  and  what  he  did 
there ;  but  his  geniality  and  his  personal  charm  had  no  per- 
ceptible effect  on  the  stranger,  who  kept  even  his  name  a  secret, 
and  steadily  declined  Mr.  Brander's  invitations  to  him  to  dine 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  109 

at  the  vicarage,  or  to  play  a  game  of  chess  with  hiin  in  the 
evenings. 

''I'm  sure  you  must  find  it  dull  alone  in  the  cottage  at 
night,"  the  vicar  would  say  to  him  cheerily;  "  for  one  can  see 
with  half  an  eye  that  you've  been  used  to  an  active  life,  with 
lots  of  movement  and  all  sorts  of  society.  Why  don't  you  let 
yourself  be  persuaded  into  sitting  by  a  warm  hearth  instead  of 
a  cold  one,  with  a  woman  and  children  about  you?  All  globe- 
trotters love  the  atmosphere  of  women  and  children. " 

"  I  can  bear  with  'em,  but  I'm  not  excited  about  either 
species,"  the  stranger  answered  one  day  to  his  neighbor's  per- 
suasions. "  I've  had  a  wife  and  children  myself;  but  I'm 
bound  to  say  I  get  on  quite  as  comfortably  without  them." 

If  this  unorthodox  speech  was  meant  to  shock  the  vicar,  it 
failed  of  its  effect;  for  Meredith  Brander  had  no  puritanical 
horror  of  human  frailties  and  eccentricities,  but  a  cheery  belief 
that  they  gave  a  healthy  outlet  to  the  dangerous  humors  of  the 
world. 

He  discussed  the  new-comer  with  his  wife,  who,  however, 
took  scarcely  enough  interest  in  the  subject  to  set  her  feminine 
wits  to  work  toward  solving  the  mystery  which  hung  about 
him. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  make  so  much  fuss  about  him," 
she  said  rather  contemptuously  one  day,  when  her  husband 
had  been  recounting  his  fruitless  efforts  to  induce  the  stranger 
to  dine  with  them.  "  And  I  am  sure  I  am  thankful  that  he 
had  the  sense  not  to  come.  To  judge  by  his  manners  he  has 
been  a  navvy,  who  went  gold-digging  and  picked  up  a  nugget; 
and  to  judge  by  his  coming  here  and  the  way  he  lives,  the 
nugget  was  somebody  else's,  and  he  has  to  live  perdu  until  the 
little  affair  has  blown  over." 

The  vicar  made  no  reply  to  this;  but  there  was  evidently 
nothing  convincing  to  him  in  his  wife's  contempt  for  the 
stranger.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  upon  a  fresh  subject. 

' '  Vernon's  getting  very  thick  with  the  new  people  at  the 
Hall  Farm.  I  met  him  to-day  arm  in  arm  with  papa,  and  I 
hear  that  he's  going  to  dine  with  them  next  Friday.  Now, 
papa  is  a  very  amiable  man,  though  he  may  not  be  overeu- 
dowed  with  brains;  but  I  suppose  it  is  not  far-fetched  to  im- 
agine that  there  may  be  another  attraction." 

Mr.  Brander  spoke  in  his  usual  light  and  genial  tones,  with- 
out even  the  touch  of  seriousness  he  had  shown  when  treating 
of  this  same  subject  with  his  brother.  But  the  effect  of  his 
on  his  wife  was  instant  and  strong.  The  lines  of  her 


110  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

handsome  mouth  grew  straight  and  hard,  her  low,  handsome 
forehead  puckered  with  an  anxious  frown  as  she  said,  sharply: 

"  He  must  be  stopped." 

The  vicar,  raising  his  eyebrows  blandly,  stroked  his  chin, 
and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  admit  that  it  would  be  very  much  for  the 
best  if  he  could  be  stopped;  but  the  question  is,  how  is  it  to 
be  done?  All  we  can  do  is  to  persuade,  exhort,  advise.  And 
haven't  we  done  it — perhaps  even  overdone  it?  If  Vernon  takes 
it  seriously  into  his  head  that  he  will  marry,  why,  marry  he  will; 
and  I  don't  see  how  all  the  king's  horses,  and  all  the  king's 
men,  can  prevent  him. " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  his  wife,  icily.     "  But  1  can." 

Her  mouth,  which  was  Mrs.  Brander's  most  eloquent  feat- 
ure, closed  with  almost  a  snap,  and  strongly  suggested  the  idea 
that  her  interest  in  her  brother-in-law's  matrimonial  inclina- 
tions was  not  purely  benevolent. 

*'  Well,  my  dear,  there  is  no  denying  that  it  would  be  for 
the  best  if  you  could  prevent  this  rather  foolish  flirtation  with 
a  particularly  headstrong  girl  from  coming  to  anything.  One 
can  scarcely  think  that  this  type  of  girl,  for  all  her  beauty  and 
high  spirit  1  think  we  must  allow  her,  would  make  him  happy 
as  a  wife. " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  the  matter  from  that  point  of  view," 
said  his  wife,  dryly. 

The  vicar  glanced  rather  uneasily  at  his  wife,  whose  habit 
of  looking  at  things  from  a  purely  matter-of-fact  and  prac- 
tical point  of  view  sometimes  jarred  upon  his  more  easy-going 
nature. 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

*'  But  you  should,  my  dear;  you  should,"  he  said,  in  a 
gently  reproachful  tone,  as  he  came  to  the  back  of  her  chair 
and,  gently  stroking  her  dark  hair  with  his  plump  white  hand, 
printed  an  affectionate  kiss  on  the  smooth  white  forehead,  from 
which  the  frown  had  scarcely  yet  departed. 

As  soon  as  her  husband  had  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Brander 
gave  herself  up  to  resolute  consideration  of  a  difficult  and  deli- 
cate plan  of  action.  After  some  time  she  came  to  a  decision, 
and  her  face  cleared. 

"  To-day  is  Wednesday/'  she  said  to  herself,  glancing  at  an 
almanac  on  her  writing-table.  "  This  dinner,  or  luncheon, 
or  whatever  it  is,  is  not  till  Friday.  Then  1  have  to-morrow 
to  work  in. " 

And  she  rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  went  about  her  house- 
hold duties  with  a  lighter  heart,  feeling  that  she  had  provided 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  Ill 

for  the  fulfillment  of  a  very  disagreeable  task  in  a  rather  able 
manner. 

On  the  following  afternoon  Mrs.  Brander,  after  a  short  drive 
in  the  neighborhood,  drove  her  little  ponies  up  to  the  door  of 
Rishton  Hall  Farm  to  make  her  first  call  upon  Mrs.  Denison. 
The  latter  lady  had  already  expressed  some  indignation  that 
the  vicar's  wife  had  not  called  upon  her  before,  and  had  even 
announced  her  intention  of  being  "  not  at  home  "  to  Mrs. 
Brander,  to  show  her  sense  of  the  folly  of  such  airs  in  a  wom- 
an who  ought,  by  virtue  of  her  husband's  office,  to  be  the 
humblest  in  the  parish.  However,  what  happened  when  the 
smart-looking  little  pony-carriage  drew  up  at  the  door  was  this: 
the  farmer's  wife,  after  peeping  through  the  dining-room  cur- 
tains, in  a  flutter  of  excitement,  rushed  across  the  hall  to  the 
drawing-room,  with  a  hoarse  whisper  of  directions  to  the  ap- 
proaching house-maid,  and  greeted  the  visitor,  on  her  entrance, 
with  a  mixture  of  dignity  and  effusiveness,  which  the  vicar's 
wife  met  with  her  usual  straightforward,  matter-of-fact  sim- 
plicity of  manner.  Mrs.  Brander  had  brought  her  ten-year-old 
daughter  with  her,  less  for  companionship  than  for  the  reason, 
which  she  would  at  once  frankly  have  owned,  that  the  child's 
fragile  fairness  formed  an  admirable  compliment  to  her  own 
brunette  beauty.  The  child  also  served  to  make  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  two  ladies  less  formal,  as  her  presence  resulted  in 
Mrs.  Denison  sending  for  her  own  two  spoiled  children,  whom 
Mrs.  Brander  greeted  courteously,  but  without  effusiveness. 
Indeed,  she  afterward  described  them  as  the  two  most  intolera- 
ble little  offenses  against  humanity  she  had  ever  met,  and  she 
was  much  too  frank  to  do  more  than  veil  this  feeling  even  in 
the  presence  of  their  mother,  whose  caresses  of  the  little  Kate 
and  compliments  on  her  beauty  evidently  excited  in  the  more 
sensible  of  the  two  mothers  no  approval  whatever. 

The  vicar's  wife  had  something  in  her  mind  that  she  con- 
sidered of  far  more  importance  than  any  matter  connected  with 
mere  children.  Before  very  long  she  brought  the  conversa- 
tion round  to  Olivia  Denison,  of  whom  she  took  care  to  speak 
with  such  exceedingly  moderate  approbation  as  she  thought 
likely  to  suit  a  step-mother's  taste.  Mrs.  Denison  was  de- 
lighted to  meet  some  one  who  did  not  go  into  the  usual  rapt- 
ures about  the  young  girl's  beauty  and  amiability. 

"  Olivia  is  not  a  bad  sort  of  girl,"  she  admitted,  in  a  patron- 
izing tone.  "  But  she  has  been  terribly  spoiled  by  her  father. 
Her  temper  is  almost  unbearable,  and  I  regret  to  say  that  she 
does  not  scruple  to  indulge  it  on  my  poor  children. ' ' 

"  1  should  think  you  would  be  glad  to  get  her  married  and 


112  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE. 

settled,  both  for  her  sake  and  your  own,  then/'  said  Mrs. 
Brander.  "  She  is  a  showy  sort  of  girl,  who  ought  to  marry 
even  here." 

Mrs.  Denison  looked  for  a  moment  rather  embarrassed. 

"  Well,  certainly,"  she  admitted,  grudgingly.  "  A  gentle- 
man has  already  made  his  appearance  who  seems  to  be  at- 
tracted by  her — at  least,  so  her  father  thinks.  1  myself  shall 
not  see  him  till  to-morrow,  when  he  comes  to  luncheon  here.*' 

"  Indeed!"  cried  Mrs.  Brander,  raising  her  eyebrows  with 
great  apparent  interest.  "  1  wonder  if  it  is  any  one  I  know?'" 
Mrs.  Denison  gave  a  little  cough  of  uncertainty. 

*'  Well/'  she  said,  at  last,  with  some  hesitation,  "  1  hope 
I'm  not  letting  out  a  secret,  but  it  is  your  own  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Vernon  Brander." 

Mrs.  Brander  almost  started  from  her  chair  in  well  simu- 
lated horror  and  surprise. 

"  Vernon!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Impossible!" 
Mrs.  Denison  turned  pale. 

"  Why  not?"  she  faltered.  "  Surely  there  is  nothing 
against  the  vicar's  brother?" 

Mrs.  Brander  hesitated,  in  much  apparent  confusion  and 
distress. 

"  1  would  not  for  the  world  have  been  the  first  to  break  it 
to  you,  and  even  now  I  scarcely  like  to  tell  you.  In  fact,  I 
will  not  unless  you  will  promise  that  it  shall  make  no  differ- 
ence in  your  treatment  of  the  unhappy  young  fellow,"  she 
said  at  last. 

Mrs.  Denison,  shaking  with  curiosity  and  alarm,  gave  the 
required  promise  in  an  unconvincing  tone. 

"  Years  ago,"  began  the  vicar's  wife  in  a  tone  lowered  tc 
escape  the  children's  ears,  "  Vernon  unhappily  became  in- 
volved in  an  intrigue  with  the  sister  of  the  man  who  occupied 
this  house,  and  at  last,  after  a  quarrel,  she  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared, and  has  not  since  been  heard  of." 

Murdered!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Denison,  startling  the  children, 
who  all  turned  round,  and  caused  her  to  put  sudden  constraint 
upon  herself. 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Brander,  rather  alarmed  by  the  strength 
of  her  effect.  "We  don't  like  to  think  that;  we  mustn't 
think  that.  But  there  is  just  enough  unpleasantness  about 
the  affair.  You  understand,"  she  murmured,  confidentially. 

"  I  should  think  so!"  cried  Mrs.  Denison,  heartily.  "  I'll 
take  care  that  he  shall  never — " 

The  vicar's  wife  interrupted  her,  laying  a  persuasive,  but 
not  feeble,  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  excited  lady. 


ST.   CCTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  113 

"  You  will  take  care  never  to  hint  a  word  of  this  to  him,  or 
to  any  one,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  but  exceedingly  authoritative 
tone.  "  You  remember  your  promise.  Without  any  measure 
so  strong  as  that,  we  women  always  know  how  to  give  an  ac- 
quaintance who  is  in  any  way  undesirable  not  too  much  cold 
shoulder,  but  just  cold  shoulder  enough." 

She  rose  to  go,  feeling  that  she  had  done  enough  to  accom- 
plish her  purpose. 

"  I  think  that  ought  to  do  it/'  she  said  to  herself,  with  sub- 
dued and  still  somewhat  anxious  satisfaction,  as  she  whipped 
up  her  ponies,  and  drove  away  from  the  farm. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  second  Mrs.  Denison  was,  unfortunately  for  her  hus- 
band's household,  one  of  those  ladies  who  unite  in  themselves 
most  of  woman's  typical  frailties.  One  of  the  most  marked 
of  these  was  a  great  jealousy  of  any  member  of  her  own  sex 
who  was  younger,  better-looking,  or  in  any  way  considered 
more  generally  attractive  than  herself.  This  jealousy  rose  to 
such  a  pitch  in  the  case  of  her  handsome  step-daughter  that 
she  was  more  pleased  at  the  discovery  of  the  ineligibility  of 
Olivia's  new  admirer  than  disappointed  at  the  failure  of  a 
prospect  of  getting  rid  of  her. 

In  spite  of  her  promises  to  Mrs.  Brander,  Mrs.  Denison  of 
course  told  her  husband  that  night,  with  some  triumph,  what 
a  desperate  character  he  proposed  to  introduce  into  the  bosom 
of  his  household  on  the  following  day.  But  her  sensational 
tirade  produced  little  effect.  Mr.  Denison  had  indeed  heard 
the  old  story  since  he  gave  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuthbert's  his  in- 
vitation ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  had  rather  tended  to  increase 
than  diminish  the  liking  he  had  taken  to  the  parson.  An  in- 
judicious liking  for  the  girls  was  a  humanizing  foible  which  he 
could  understand  and  excuse.  As  for  the  disappearance,  it 
was  an  old  story,  and  might  contain  an  old  slander.  At  any 
rate,  even  a  murderer  was  better  than  a  milksop.  So  he  made 
light  of  his  wife's  deep-voiced  harangue,  and  pronounced  his 
opinion  that  Mrs.  Meredith  Brander  might  find  something  bet- 
ter to  do  than  to  spread  these  foolish  stories  concerning  her 
brother-in-law. 

"  Then  you  mean  to  take  no  steps,  in  the  face  of  what  I 
have  told  you,  to  prevent  your  own  hearth  from  being  polluted 
by  the  presence  of  a  murderous  libertine?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Denison,  who  had  the  liking  of  a  narrow  and  half-educated 


114  ST.  CTJTHBERT'S  TOWEK. 

mind,  in  moments  of  excitement,  for  language  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going,  after  inviting  a  man  to  luncheon,  to 
rush  out  and  tell  him  we  have  heard  a  cock-and-bull  story 
about  his  doings  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  and  so  we  can't 
let  him  come  in. " 

' '  And  so  Beatrice  and  Reginald  are  to  get  their  ideas  of  the 
church  from  this  man?  I  might  have  known  what  sort  of  a 
clergyman  you  would  pick  up,  who  would  never  receive  Mr. 
Lovekin  or  Mr.  Butterworthf  I  am  told  this  Mr.  Vernon 
Brander  doesn't  even  dress  like  a  clergyman. " 

"  He  wears  a  round  collar,"  said  Mr.  Denison;  "  perhaps 
that  will  save  the  morals  of  Beatrice  and  Regniald.  Anyhow, 
he  doesn't  talk  up  in  his  head  like  old  Buttermilk,  and  he 
doesn't  look  so  like  a  trussed  chicken  as  that  lean-necked 
Lovekin  used  to  do. " 

"  At  least  there  was  no  scandal  about  either  of  those  gentle- 
men/' said  his  wife,  with  dignity.  "  A  girl  could  trust  her- 
self with  either  of  them. " 

"  She'd  have  an  odd  taste  if  she  couldn't." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  no  objection  to  this  man  as  a  suitor  for 
your  daughter?" 

"  He  hasn't  proposed  yet." 

44  Or  to  the  chance  of  her  being  found  dead  in  a  mysterious 
manner." 

"  Perhaps  he  doesn't  make  away  with  more  than  seventy- 
five  per  cent,  of  the  girls  he  comes  across.  Olivia  might  take 
her  chance,"  said  Mr.  Denison,  who  was  getting  sleepy,  and 
had  had  enough  of  the  conversation. 

This  flippancy  silenced  her  for  a  time;  but  it  had  for  its 
permanent  effect  on  Mrs.  Denison  the  strengthening  of  her 
resolution  to  show  this  black  sheep  of  the  church  what  a  high- 
principled  British  matron  thought  of  him. 

When,  next  day,  the  Reverend  Vernon  Brander  arrived  at 
the  farm  for  luncheon,  his  evil  star  brought  him  before  Olivia 
had  returned  from  her  morning  walk.  He  was  shown  into 
the  drawing-room,  where,  by  Olivia's  orders,  in  honor  of  his 
coming,  a  fire  blazed  in  the  usually  cheerless  grate;  for  Mrs. 
Denison,  although  an  indolent  and  extravagant  housekeeper, 
practiced  from  habit  a  dozen  uncomfortable  and  futile  little 
economies,  which  she  had  learned  in  her  childhood's  days  in 
her  father's  small  shop.  On  learning  of  the  guest's  arrival 
she  made  no  haste  to  receive  him;  and  Vernon  was  left  for 
some  time  to  an  uninterrupted  study  of  the  room. 

He  decided  at  once,  his  thoughts  while  hi  this  house  all  tak- 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TO  WEE.  115 

ing  the  same  direction,  that  Olivia  seldom  or  never  sat  in  the 
room,  that  she  did  not  like  it,  but  that,  nevertheless,  she  had 
had  something  to  do  with  the  arrangement  of  it,  and  that  much 
of  the  decorative  work,  both  of  needle  and  paint-brush,  with 
which  it  was  adorned,  was  done  by  her  active  fingers.  The 
position  of  each  article  of  furniture  was  too  coldly  correct  to 
please  her,  Vernon,  used  to  the  society  of  a  woman  of  taste, 
felt  sure.  There  was  no  pretty  disorder  of  open  book  or  music, 
untidy  work-basket,  with  its  picturesque  overflow  of  feminine 
trifles;  no  disarranged  cushion;  no  displaced  chair.  The 
piano  was  shut — looked  even  as  if  it  might  be  locked;  the 
furniture,  of  the  pretty,  modern,  spindle-shanked,  uncomforta- 
ble type,  was  evidently  scarcely  ever  used.  Vernon  had  time 
to  wander  about  at  his  leisure  until  he  found  something  which 
roused  in  him  more  than  a  passing  interest.  This  was  a  large 
photographed  head  of  Olivia,  which  stood  by  itself  in  a  dark 
corner  on  a  side-table  in  a  handsome  oak  frame.  It  had  evi- 
dently been  taken  quite  recently,  and  was  an  excellent  like- 
ness. Vernon  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  take  it  up 
and  carry  it  to  a  window  to  examine  it,  as  he  could  not  do  in 
the  obscurity  to  which  it  had  been  condemned.  Then,  as  he 
was  still  left  undisturbed,  he  put  the  portrait  on  a  center- table 
in  the  full  light,  and  opening  an  album  which  lay  not  far  off, 
began  hunting  for  more  photographs  of  the  same  girl.  He 
found  a  page  containing  four,  taken  at  different  stages  of 
childhood  and  gawky  young  girlhood.  Going  down  on  his 
knees  beside  the  large  portrait,  he  held  open  the  album  im- 
mediately underneath  it,  and  began  tracing  out  the  develop- 
ment of  the  woman  from  the  child  with  the  deepest  interest. 

Absorbed,  as  his  habit  was,  in  the  occupation  of  the  mo- 
ment, he  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  heed,  the  approach  of  foot- 
steps across  the  hall.  The  door  had  not  been  properly  closed, 
and,  before  he  could  change  his  position,  it  had  been  thrust 
open  with  peremptory  touch,  and  he  was  in  the  presence  of  his 
hostess. 

Glancing  from  him  to  the  portrait  on  the  table,  and  thence 
to  the  book  in  his  hand,  Mrs.  Denison  saw  or  guessed  how  he 
was  employed,  and  feminine  jealousy  and  dislike  increased  the 
horror  and  indignation  she  was  nursing  against  this  homicidal 
clergyman  whom  her  husband  had  chosen  to  exalt  at  the  ex- 
pense of  her  own  chosen  divines.  She  stood  with  a  stony  and 
most  unwelcoming  face  while  Vernon,  rising  hastily  with  a 
bright  laugh,  shut  the  album,  and  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

But  she  put  forward  no  cordial  hand,  and  vouchsafed  him 
only  the  coldest  little  nod  of  the  head.  Vernon  mistook  the 


116  ST.    CUTHBERT'S    TOWER. 

reason  of  this  reception,  confounding  the  step-mother  with  the 
mother,  and  supposing  that  his  hostess  was  in  arms  at  the  lib- 
erty he  had  taken  in  thus  openly  worshiping  at  the  young  girl's 
shrine. 

"  I  must  apologize  for  my  attitude  of  apparent  devotion," 
he  said;  "  but  I  was  so  much  interested  in  tracing  the  develop- 
ment of  the  child  as  shown  here,"  and  he  held  out  the  album, 
"into  the  woman  as  represented  here/'  and  he  touched  the 
portrait  on  the  table,  ' '  that  I  did  not  notice  how  unnecessarily 
devout  my  position  had  become." 

"  Very  unnecessarily,"  assented  Mrs.  Denison,  in  a  hard  and 
frigid  tone. 

Poor  Vernon  looked  much  disconcerted  by  this  rebuff. 

"  I  hope  you  will  believe,"  he  began,  almost  stammering  in 
his  confusion,  "  that  I  had  no  intention  of  taking  a  liberty  in 
admiring  your  daughter's  portrait  so  openly — " 

"  My  step-daughter's!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Denison,  with  a 
snap. 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes — I  mean  your  step-daughter's,"  floundered 
Vernon,  more  perplexed  than  ever.  If  she  did  not  care  about 
the  girl,  why  this  anger?  '  You  must  all  be  so  much  accus- 
tomed to  the  admiration  Miss  Denison  excites  that  even  an 
eccentric  tribute  may,  I  hope,  be  excused. " 

With  masculine  want  of  tact  he  was  getting  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  mire.  Mrs.  Denison's  cold,  pale,  plump  face 
grew  every  moment  more  forbidding. 

"  The  place  is  not  so  overrun  with  admirers  of  Olivia  Deni- 
son as  you  seem  to  imagine,"  said  she,  acidly.  "There  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  the  girl's  face;  on  the  other  hand,  we 
are  not  accustomed  to  consider  it  anything  to  rave  about.  We 
Londoners  like  beauty  of  a  more  delicate  type. " 

"If  by  delicate  you  mean  puny  and  pale,"  said  Vernon, 
with  rash  honesty,  "  you  certainly  won't  get  us  up  here  to 
agree  with  you.  But  if  you  mean  refined,  I  can't  imagine  a 
face  more  ideally  satisfying  in  that  respect  than  Miss  Deni- 
son's." 

This  was  the  last  straw.  The  one  consolation  Mrs.  Denison 
always  had  ready  for  herself  on  the  irritating  subject  of  Olivia's 
beauty  was  that  her  own  flaccid  paleness  made  the  girl's  bright 
coloring  look  "  vulgar."  She  had  made  her  entrance  in  an 
aggressive  mood;  every  word  the  unfortunate  man  bad  uttered 
had  increased  her  prejudice  against  him,  and  had  seemed 
specially  designed  for  her  annoyance.  Inflamed  by  sullen 
anger,  and  rushing  to  the  favorite  conclusion  of  the  ill-bred 
that  she  had  been  "  insulted,"  Mrs.  Denison  let  loose  upon 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  117 

her  guest  the  vials  of  her  wrath.  She  had  just  enough  sense 
of  decency  not  to  get  loud  in  her  anger;  but  her  thm,  com- 
pressed lips  and  coldly  venomous  gray  eyes  struck  a  sort  of 
terror  into  the  unsuspecting  clergyman,  before  her  slow  words 
came  like  the  crash  of  a  thunder-bolt  upon  his  ears.  Mrs. 
Denison  prefaced  her  speech  by  a  hard,  short  laugh  that 
scarcely  moved  the  muscles  of  her  flabby  face. 

"  I  suppose  your  taste  still  runs  in  the  same  direction  that 
it  did  ten  years  ago  then,  and  that  you  admire  red-cheeked 
farmers'  daughters  as  much  as  ever?" 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  madame,"  said  Vernon,  growing 
paler  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible,  but  losing  his  nervous- 
ness in  the  face  of  this  preposterous  attack. 

His  recovered  self-possession  irritated  Mrs.  Denison,  who  had 
expected  him  to  cower  under  her  onslaught.  Although  she 
was  already  growing  alarmed  at  what  she  had  done,  she  was 
too  sullenly  obstinate  to  draw  back,  and  she  strengthened  her- 
self, even  while  her  breath  came  faster  and  a  slight  flush  came 
over  her  face,  with  the  conviction  that  she  was  unmasking  vil- 
lainy, and  putting  to  rout  a  man  who  was  a  disgrace  to  his 
sacred  calling. 

"Indeed,  I  should  have  thought  that  in  this  house,  of  all 
others,  your  memory  would  have  been  better. " 

As  Mrs.  Denison  had  remained  standing,  Vernon  had  per- 
force done  the  same.  He  now  took  a  step  to  the  left,  so  that 
the  light  might  fall  on  his  face  as  well  as  on  hers  as  he  an- 
swered her. 

"  If  you  have  any  accusation  to  make  against  me,  will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  make  it  in  so  many  words,  and  not  in 
roundabout  hints?" 

He  had  managed  to  make  the  woman  feel  the  full  awkward- 
ness of  the  position  into  which  she  had  brought  herself.  She 
hesitated  and  stammered,  even  though  her  gray  eyes  did  not 
flinch  from  their  vindictive  stare. 

"  I — I  had  heard — everybody  has — stories  which — a  clergy- 
man, too! — 1  should  never  have  thought — " 

"  No.  People  never  do  think,  when  they  bring  a  vague 
charge,  that  they  ought  to  be  ready  to  substantiate  it.  Will 
you  tell  me  what  you  heard?" 

"  I  am  not  to  be  brought  to  book  in  this  way,"  said  Mrs. 
Denison,  recovering  herself,  and  speaking  in  a  louder  voice. 
"  You  can  not  be  ignorant  of  the  stories  about  you,  and  you 
can  not  be  surprised  that  I  don't  think  you  a  fit  person  to — to 
be  a  friend  to — to  young  girls. " 

There  was  a  pause,  which  Mrs.  Denison  found  very  awk- 


118  ST.     CUTHBERT'S    TOWER. 

ward.  She  stood  with  one  hand  upon  a  small  octagonal  table, 
feeling  very  anxious  that  this  most  obnoxious  visitor  would 
either  go  or  give  her  an  opportunity  of  going.  Vernon,  on 
his  side,  stood  perfectly  still  before  her,  staring  at  the  floor, 
not  with  the  shame-faced  look  of  remorse  and  guilt,  but  with 
an  expression  of  painful  and  earnest  thought.  At  last  he  raised 
his  head,  and  his  black  eyes,  full  of  passion  and  fire,  met  her 
own  cold  gray  ones  steadily. 

"  You  have  heard  that  I  caused  the  disappearance  of  a  girl 
ten  years  ago?"  said  he,  not  abruptly,  but  with  grave  deliber- 
ateness. 

*'  Er — yes — something — yes— of  the  sort/'  answered  Mrs. 
Denison,  taken  aback. 

"  And  on  sufficiently  good  authority  to  warrant  your  con- 
sidering it  true?" 

"  On  the  very  best  authority.  I  never  act  on  any  other," 
said  the  lady,  hastily. 

Vernon  looked  perplexed,  and  his  tone  grew  a  little  more 
diffident  as  he  continued: 

"  Then  why  not  have  spared  me  the  humiliation  of  this  re- 
ception? Just  two  lines  sent  by  the  stable  boy  would  have 
been  enough,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  should  never  have  troubled 
you  with  what,  I  hope,  has  been  a  painful  interview  to  you. " 

Vernon  said  "  hope,"  and  even  put  a  slight  emphasis  on  the 
word,  as  he  had  a  suspicion  that  his  hostess  was  ill-natured 
enough  to  have  found  some  enjoyment  in  his  discomfiture. 
With  a  ceremonious  and  dignified  bow  he  was  passing  her  on 
his  way  to  the  door,  when  a  genial  voice  startled  them  both, 
and  Mr.  Denison  entered. 

Not  being  a  man  of  specially  quick  perceptions,  the  new- 
comer did  not  at  once  see  that  anything  was  wrong.  He 
seized  Vernon  by  both  hands,  welcomed  him  in  warm  words, 
and  with  apologies  for  having  been  absent  on  his  arrival. 

"  And  where's  my  Olivia?"  he  went  on,  turning  to  his  wife, 
now  observing  for  the  first  time  the  unpromising  frown  on 
that  lady's  face,  and  believing  that  his  daughter's  neglect  was 
the  cause.  "  She  should  have  been  here  to  help  you  entertain 
Mr.  Brander." 

Mrs.  Denison  began  to  say  something  inarticulately,  but 
Vernon,  in  a  clear  and  deliberate  voice,  took  the  words  out  of 
her  mouth. 

"  You  do  Mrs.  Denison  injustice.  Judging  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  has  entertained  me,  I  should  think  she  is  not 
only  able,  but  that  she  prefers,  to  do  without  any  assistance. " 

Mrs.   Denison  looked  both  confused  and  alarmed,  as  she 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  119 

stammered  something  about  Mr.  Brander's  having  misunder- 
stood her.  For  her  husband,  like  many  other  easy-going 
men,  was  subject  to  occasional  fits  of  passionate  violence, 
which,  for  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Denrson's  cold  and  somewhat 
stodgy  temperament,  had  peculiar  terrors. 

"  Misunderstood!"  cried  he,  in  an  ominous  tone  of  surprise 
and  perplexity.  "  Misunderstood  what?" 

"  I  think  the  misunderstanding  was  on  the  lady's  side," 
said  Vernon,  very  calmly,  moving  a  step  nearer  the  door. 
"  For  if  Mrs.  Denison  really  thought  that  I  could  comfortably 
partake  of  her  hospitality  after  being  accused  by  her  of  un- 
specified crimes,  she  made  a  mistake  which  I  must  now  beg  to 
leave  her  leisure  to  recognize." 

Without  giving  Mr.  Denison,  who  had  grown  during  this 
speech  absolutely  livid  with  anger,  time  to  answer  him,  Ver- 
non Brander  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house. 

But  Mr.  Denison's  outbursts  of  passion,  if  violent,  were 
short-lived.  After  having  inveighed  for  a  few  minutes  furious- 
ly against  woman's  talkativeness  and  woman's  indiscretion,  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  talked  round  by  his  wife,  into  believing 
that  what  little  she  had  said  to  the  Reverend  Vernon  touching 
his  former  delinquencies,  he  had  brought  upon  himself  by  a 
very  impertinent  expression  of  his  admiration  for  Olivia. 
Being  at  heart  a  man  of  peace,  and  unable  to  retain  displeas- 
ure with  any  one  for  long,  Mr.  Denison  had  subsided  into  an 
uneasy  and  conscience-pricked  silence  on  the  subject,  when 
Olivia's  footsteps,  bounding  through  the  hall  with  the  agility 
of  youth  and  high  spirits,  startled  both  husband  and  wife. 

The  girl  sprung  into  the  room  like  a  flash  of  sunshine,  but 
being  far  more  acute  than  her  father,  the  first  glance  from  his 
face  to  that  of  his  wife  showed  her  that  something  was  wrong. 

"  Where's  Mr.  Brander?"  she  asked,  abruptly,  already  with 
a  dash  of  suspicion  in  her  tone.  "Lucy  told  me  he'd  been 
here  nearly  half  an  hour. " 

Mr.  Deuison  walked  away  to  the  nearest  window  without 
speaking;  Mrs.  Denison  leaned  back  in  the  easy-chair  which 
she  was  occupying  with  an  assumption  of  easy  dignity  meant 
to  conceal  the  uneasiness  which  she  felt.  For  to  displease 
Olivia  seriously,  much  as  the  elder  woman  might  affect  to 
ignore  the  girl's  feelings,  was  a  very  different  thing  from  dis- 
pleasing her  good-tempered  father. 

"  Mr.  Brander  has  been  and  has  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Denison, 
with  an  air  of  offended  dignity.  "  He  has  proved  himself  un- 
worthy the  honor  of  being  admitted  as  a  friend  into  my  fam- 
ily, and  I  never  wish  to  hear  his  name  mentioned  again." 


120  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  to  be  satisfied  like  that,"  said  Olivia, 
rery  quietly.  Then  she  stood,  with  hands  clasped  and  pas- 
sionate, earnest  eyes,  gazing  at  her  step-mother's  doughy  face 
with  a  steadfastness  which  caused  that  lady  to  "  fidget  "  un- 
easily, and  thus  to  destroy  the  effect  of  her  efforts  at  dignified 
composure. 

"You're  forgetting  yourself  strangely,  Olivia,  to  speak  to 
me  in  that  manner.  I  am  mistress  here,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  be  dictated  to  by  a  chit  of  a  girl.'' 

"  You  have  said  something,  done  something,  to  send  him 
away ;  I  am  sure  of  it, "  said  the  girl  with  breathless  earnest- 
ness, not  heeding  her  step-mother's  fretful  protest.  "  I  will 
know  what  it  is;  1  have  a  right  to  know.  Papa,"  she  went 
on,  turning  toward  her  father  entreatingly,  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  that  grew  softer  the  moment  she  addressed  him,  "  you 
know  Mr.  Brander  has  been  kind  to  me,  most  unselfishly,  dis- 
interestedly kind — and  just  when  I  wanted  help  and  kindness. 
You  would  not  let  him  be  rudely  treated,  would  you?  You 
would  never  allow  your  guest  to  be  insulted,  I  am  sure.  Tell 
me  what  has  happened;  I  must  know.  Do  tell  me;  do  satisfy 
me.  I  am  not  curious;  I  am  miserable  until  I  know/' 

She  had  crossed  the  room  to  him,  put  affectionate  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  was  looking  into  his  face  with  tender  plead- 
ing, far  more  irresistible  even  than  his  wife's  peremptory  rea- 
soning had  been.  He  could  not  look  her  in  the  face,  but 
frowned,  and  made  feeble  and  futile  attempts  to  get  rid  of  the 
clinging  fingers.  Mrs.  Denison's  hard  voice  then  struck  upon 
their  ears. 

"  Really,  Edward,  you're  not  going  to  allow  yourself  to  be 
talked  over  in  that  way,  I  hope.  Surely  you  and  I  are  the 
best  judges  as  to  who  are  and  who  are  not  fit  acquaintances 
for  our  children.  And  when  the  wife  of  the  vicar  of  the  par- 
ish herself  warns  me  that  such  and  such  a  man  is  a  criminal  of 
a  sort  not  fit  to  be  admitted  into  a  decent  house,  I  don't  think 
any  one  can  dispute  that  we  have  authority  for  what  we  do. " 

"  The  wife  of  the  vicar!  Mrs.  Brander!"  exclaimed  Olivia 
in  bewilderment.  "  She  told  you  that  about  her  brother-in- 
law?" 

Mrs.  Denison  did  not  answer.  She  was  ready  to  bite  her 
tongue  out  for  her  indiscretion  in  mentioning  her  informant's 
name.  For  she  knew  Olivia's  impulsive  nature,  and  was  very 
much  afraid  that  the  girl  would  get  her  into  trouble  with  the 
vicar's  wife,  with  whom  she  was  anxious  to  stand  well.  For 
Mrs.  Brander's  well-bred  simplicity  of  manner,  and  a  certain 
air  of  being  queen  of  the  district  which  years  of  homage  had 


ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  121 

given  her,  had  made  a  strong  impression  on  the  ex-governess. 
Olivia  read  the  truth  in  her  step-mother's  confusion,  and  a 
new  spring  of  anger  bubbled  up  in  her  heart. 

"The  wicked,  treacherous  woman!"  she  panted,  scarcely 
aloud,  but  with  great  vehemence.  "  He  shall  know  who  are 
the  friends  who  spread  these  stories  about  him. " 

She  was  turning  impulsively  toward  the  door,  drawing  on  as 
she  did  so,  one  of  the  gloves  she  had  taken  off,  when  Mrs. 
Denison,  with  unaccustomed  agility,  sprung  up  from  her  chair 
and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  peremptorily,  with 
much  anxiety. 

Olivia  looked  down  at  her  face  with  a  resolute  expression, 
which  made  her  step-mother's  hands  tingle  to  box  her  ears. 

"  I  am  going  to  find  Mr.  Vernon  Brander,  to  tell  him  of  the 
slanders  that  are  being  spread  about  him  and  who  spreads 
them,  and  1  am  going  to  apologize  most  humbly  for  the  treat- 
ment he  has  received  in  this  house  this  morning." 

If  Olivia  had  trusted  herself  for  another  minute  in  Mrs. 
Denison's  clutches,  the  last  ray  of  that  good  lady's  self-restraint 
would  have  been  torn  away,  and  she  would  have  recalled  her 
old  methods  of  school-room  rule  by  bringing  her  plump  hand 
in  sharp  contact  with  the  girl's  cheeks.  But  Olivia  was  too 
quick  for  her.  With  an  agile  twist  of  her  imprisoned  arm  she 
freed  herself,  and  shaking  her  head  at  her  father,  who  was 
crossing  the  room  to  follow  her,  she  left  the  room  even  more 
rapidly  than  Vernon  Brander  had  done. 

Olivia  flew  along  the  road  toward  St.  Cuthbert's  as  if  pur- 
sued. The  thought  that  the  man  who  had  done  so  much  both 
to  help  and  protect  her  should  have  been  exposed  to  the  vulgar 
insults  of  the  tyrant  of  her  father's  household  threw  her  into  a 
frenzy  of  anger  and  humiliation  for  which  she  found  no  balm. 
With  her  indignation  against  Mrs.  Meredith  Brander,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  mingled  an  unacknowledged  consolation. 
She  did  not  like  that  lady;  she  was  also  unconsciously  jealous 
of  her  strong  hold  upon  her  brother-in-law.  Therefore  the 
discovery  of  Mrs.  Brander's  perfidy,  which  could  not  fail  to 
weaken  that  hold,  had  an  element  which  was  not  unwelcome. 
But  to  do  the  girl  justice,  this  selfish  feeling  was  in  very  small 
proportion  to  the  passionate  wish  to  make  some  amends  to  him 
for  the  indignity  he  had  just  suffered. 

It  has  been  a  dull  morning  and  now  the  rain  was  beginning 
to  fall  and  to  envelope  the  hills  far  away  on  the  left  with  a 
haze  which  by  its  density  threatened  something  worse  than  a 
light  shower.  In  her  impulsive  eagerness  to  start  on  her 


122  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

errand  of  consolation,  she  had  not  thought  of  the  mundane  pre- 
caution of  taking  an  umbrella,  and  although  she  was  now  not 
too  much  absorbed  to  regret  the  omission,  she  was  far  too  im- 
patient to  go  back.  As  the  rain  fell  faster  she  began  to  run, 
and  when  she  came  in  sight  of  the  ruinous  church,  standing 
still  far  away  in  the  valley  below  her,  partly  hidden  by  the 
gaunt  and  cheerless  vicarage,  she  had  to  pause  for  breath, 
although  by  that  time  her  clothes  were  wet  through.  Through 
the  veil  of  rain  she  caught  sight  of  a  man  who  was  making  his 
way  toward  St.  Cuthbert's  by  a  shorter  path,  over  the  meadows 
and  through  the  straggling  trees  which  at  this  point  skirted 
the  hill  on  the  south  side  of  the  valley.  It  must  be  Vernon 
Brander,  she  felt  sure,  returning  passionately  augry  or  deeply 
humiliated,  from  his  unlucky  visit  to  the  farm. 

Olivia  wanted  to  overtake  him  before  he  could  reach  hia 
house;  so  with  her  usual  impetuous  rashness,  she  broke  through 
the  hedge  on  her  left,  ran,  tumbled,  and  slipped  down  the 
hill,  which  was  slippery  with  wet  grass,  scrambled  through  the 
damp,  dead  underwood  which  grew  between  the  trees  at  the 
bottom,  and,  running  for  the  rest  of  the  way,  got  into  the  lane 
leading  to  the  church,  and,  turning  the  last  sharp  corner  in  a 
brilliant  spurt,  ran  into  the  man  she  was  pursuing  as  he  leaned 
against  the  churchward  gate. 

And  it  was  not  Vernoii  Brander  after  all! 

The  man  had  turned,  hearing  the  rapid  footsteps  behind 
him,  and  the  change  in  the  girl's  face,  as  she  learned  her  mis- 
take, was  far  too  pronounced  for  him  not  to  see  easily  that  she 
was  disappointed. 

"  I'm  the  wrong  man,  missee,  I'm  afraid,"  said  he,  good- 
humoredly,  and  in  a  manner  perfectly  free  from  offense. 

Olivia  knew  that  this  was  the  new  tenant  of  Rishton  Church 
Cottage;  she  had  seen  him  on  the  previous  Sunday,  not  indeed 
inside  the  church,  of  which  he  had  confessed  to  the  vicar,  a 
frank  abhorrence,  but  leaning  over  the  low  wall  of  his  garden 
to  watch  the  worshipers,  as  they  left  the  building,  with  half- 
shut,  critical  eyes. 

"  No,"  said  she,  apologetically;  "  I  thought  it  was  the 
vicar." 

A  curious  look,  partly  of  interest  and  partly,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  of  pity  came  over  his  face. 

"The  vicar  of  this  rat  run?"  he  asked,  with  a  nod  of  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  church. 

"  The  Vicar  of  Saint  Cuthbert's,"  answered  the  girl  with 
some  dignity. 

Her  ideas  on  the  subject  of  conversation  with  strangers  were 


ST.  CUTHBERT/S  TOWER.  123 

strictly  conventional,  but  besides  the  universal  interest  and 
curiosity  which  the  mystery  surrounding  the  new-comer  excit- 
ed, she  felt  a  sudden  conviction  that  the  attraction  which 
brought  him  to  this  remote  neighborhood  was  not  unconnected 
with  Vernon  Brander. 

The  stranger  gave  a  sort  of  grunt,  and  nodded  significantly. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  he. 

Olivia  turned  away,  with  a  deep  flush  in  her  cheeks,  much 
vexed  with  herself  for  having  given  the  man  an  opening  for  a 
remark  which  seemed  highly  impertinent.  She  was  making 
boldly  for  the  vicarage  when  she  heard  the  stranger's  voice 
again.  He  had  followed  and  was  walking  beside  her. 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Denison,"  he  began,  in  a  serious  and  re- 
spectful tone,  "  although  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  you  are  not 
one  to  me,  for  I've  studied  you  since  I've  been  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, as  I've  studied  all  the  rest  of  my  neighbors.  And  if  1 
thought  of  them  all  as  I  do  of  you,  it  would  be  better  for  some 
of  them." 

Olivia  turned  suddenly  toward  him,  and  stopped,  impress- 
ed by  his  tone,  and  filled  with  dread  of  what  was  coming. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  continued,  in  a  voice  which,  for 
the  rough  man,  was  almost  gentle.  "  You're  a  fine,  high- 
spirited,  generous  girl,  and  I  want  to  be  able  to  say  to  you 
that  I  will  never  harm  you  nor  yours." 

"  You  want  to  be  able  to  say  it!"  she  exclaimed  in  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  Yes.  As  long  as  you  remain  Miss  Denison  I  can  say  it; 
but  if  you  were  to  shut  your  ears  to  everybody's  warnings  and 
marry  the  Vicar  of  St.  Molder-in-the-Hole  here,  I  couldn't. " 

"  Why,  who  are  you?"  cried  the  girl,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"  Ned  Mitchell,  brother  to  Nellie  Mitchell,  who  was  done 
away  with  here  ten  years  ago.  And  I'm  here  to  make  the 
man  who  murdered  her  swing  for  it!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

OLIVIA  DENISON  was  by  no  means  a  nervous  or  weak-mind- 
ed girl.  On  learning  that  the  man  who  stood  before  her  was 
the  brother  of  Nellie  Mitchell,  she  did  not  scream  or  stagger 
back,  or  give  any  outward  sign  of  the  shock  she  felt,  except  to 
bite  her  lips,  which  had  begun  to  tremble  and  twitch,  as  she 
bowed  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the  information.  But, 
none  the  less,  she  was  instantly  possessed  by  a  much  greater 
terror  than  if  this  unexpected  avenger  had  been  a  fierce-look- 
ing personage  with  flashing  eyes  and  a  melodramatic  roll  in 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

his  voice.  She  felt  that  there  would  be  no  softening  this  hard- 
headed  colonist,  who  took  the  punishment  of  his  sister's  be- 
trayer as  "  all  in  the  day's  work/' and  announced  his  intention 
of  getting  him  hanged  with  the  same  dispassionate  decision 
with  which  he  would  have  resolved  on  the  sale  of  a  flock  of 
sheep.  And  at  the  same  time  she  felt  for  the  first  time  fully 
conscious  that  even  the  absolute  knowledge  of  Vernon  Bran- 
der's  guilt  would  not  suffice  to  stifle  her  interest  in  him. 

Quietly  as  she  took  his  sensational  announcement,  Ned 
Mitchell  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  the  young  lady  was 
greatly  shocked  by  it,  and  her  bearing  filled  him  with  genuine 
admiration.  But  his  first  attempt  to  soften  the  blow  was 
scarcely  well  worded. 

"  Come,  Miss  Denison,  there  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as 
ever  came  out  of  it,  and  a  young  lady  of  your  spirit  is  too  good 
to  waste  half  a  sigh  on  any  man,  let  alone  a  parson.  There's 
nobody  fit  to  mate  with  you  in  this  played-out  old  country; 
what  you  want  is  a  lad  who  can  sit  a  buck- jumper,  or  ride  five 
hundred  miles  without  a  wink  of  sleep  except  what  he  gets  in 
the  saddle.  That's  your  sort." 

"Is  it?"  said  Olivia,  tranquilly.  "  Perhaps  so.  But  I 
assure  you,  Mr.  Mitchell,  I  can  exist  a  few  more  years  without 
a  mate  at  all,  and  that  it  is  no  frantic  desire  to  get  married 
which  makes  me  anxious  to  see  one  of  my  friends  cleared  of  a 
charge  of  which  I  believe  him  to  be  innocent. " 

"  Well  said.  That's  what  a  friend  should  believe.  But  if 
your  friend  has  quite  a  free  conscience  about  St.  Cuthbert's 
church-yard  and  anything  that  may  ever  have  taken  place  in 
it,  can  you  suggest  a  reason  for  the  gate's  being  always 
locked?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  to  prevent  the  sheep  getting  in,"  said 
Olivia,  regretting  the  feeble  suggestion  the  next  moment. 

"  Certainly  the  sheep  can't  pick  a  lock,  but,  then,  neither 
could  they  lift  an  ordinary  latch. " 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  no  church-yard  is  ever  kept  locked 
unless  a  murder  has  ever  been  committed  in  it?" 

' '  No.  But  I  think  it  strange  that  since  I  have  been  here, 
prowling  about,  let  us  say,  not  only  has  the  gate  been  mended 
where  it  had  grown  weak  in  one  of  the  hinges,  but  two  breaches 
in  the  wall,  by  which  one  could  have  got  into  the  church-yard 
without  the  help  of  the  gate,  have  been  repaired." 

Olivia  glanced  toward  the  place  where  she  had  got  in  over 
the  broken  wall  on  a  former  occasion.  The  gap  had  been 
stopped  up,  and  some  of  the  earth  underneath  on  the  outside 
had  beec  carted  away  to  make  a  forced  entrance  more  difficult. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  135 

"  Well,"  said  she,  her  cheeks  flushing,  "  and  is  there  any- 
thing singular  in  the  fact  of  a  vicar's  having  his  church-yard 
wall  repaired?" 

"  When  the  church-yard  is  so  orderly  and  so  beautifully 
kept  as  this  one?"  added  Mr.  Mitchell,  with  a  derisive  laugh. 
"  Yes,  I  think  there  is  something  singular  in  it.  And  what 
makes  it  to  my  mind  more  singular  still  is  that  when  I  con- 
gratulated the  Eeverend  Vernon  Brander  on  these  repairs  he 
denied  all  knowledge  of  them. " 

"  Then  he  certainly  knew  nothing  about  them,  "said  Olivia, 
promptly. 

Mr.  Mitchell,  for  the  first  time,  gave  her  a  glance  such  as  he 
was  accustomed  to  bestow  on  the  ordinary  run  of  women — a 
glance  full  of  resigned  and  lenient  contempt. 

"  Well,  you  are  thorough-going,  at  least,"  he  said  at  last, 
patronizingly.  "  But  it  is  a  curiously  lucky  thing  for  the  vicar, 
whose  house  is  the  only  place  that  commands  a  view  of  the 
church-yard,  mind  you,  that  I  can  be  seen  wandering  about  the 
place  one  day,  and  find  I  can't  get  in  the  next." 

"  Very  likely  his  housekeeper  saw  you,  as  you  say,  prowling 
about,  and,  considering  your  manner  suspicious,  had  the  re- 
pairs made  without  thinking  it  worth  while  to  consult  her 
master." 

"  Not  likely,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 
"  However,  111  not  keep  you  here  in  the  rain  trying  to  per- 
suade an  old  hand  like  me  that  black's  white.  Do  you  know 
that  your  clothes  are  wet  through?" 

This  was  quite  true.  Recalled  to  consciousness  of  physical 
discomfort,  Olivia  shivered. 

"  Yes,  I  must  make  haste  home,"  she  said.  Then,  with  a 
hopeless  glance  at  his  face  as  if  she  despaired  of  her  words  hav- 
ing any  effect,  she  added,  "  You  are  too  suspicious.  You  are 
so  shrewd  that  you  think  you  can't  make  a  mistake.  But  for 
all  your  cleverness,  my  belief  in  the  friend  I  know  and  trust  is 
just  as  likely  to  be  right  as  your  belief  to  the  contrary." 

"  Well,  well,  I  hope  it  may  be.  Don't  think  I  have  any  ill- 
feeling  toward  this  Vernon  Brander  as  a  man;  it  is  the  be- 
trayer of  my  sister  that  I'm  after,  and  if  Vernon  Brander  isn't 
the  guilty  party,  why,  he'll  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me. 
Good-afternoon,  Miss  Denison. " 

Mr.  Mitchell  raised  his  hat,  with  a  shrewd  and  not  unkindly 
smile  into  the  girl's  beautiful,  agitated  face,  turned  on  his 
heel,  and  began  to  make  his  way,  with  his  usual  stolid  and 
leisurely  manner,  up  the  hill  toward  the  high-road. 

Left  to  herself,  Olivia,  who  was  by  this  time  too  thoroughly 


126  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

drenched  to  trouble  herself  about  a  few  minutes  more  or  lew 
in  the  rain,  debated  what  she  should  do.  The  heat  of  the  im- 
pulse which  made  her  dash  out-of-doors  on  learning  the  insult 
to  Vernon  had  now  departed,  and  some  of  Mr.  Mitchell's 
words  had  hurt  her  maidenly  modesty  to  the  extent  of  making 
her  shy  of  visiting  the  clergyman  at  his  house.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  had  now,  in  the  menaces  of  the  colonist,  another 
reason  for  putting  him  on  his  guard.  When  Mr.  Mitchell  had 
disappeared  from  her  sight  at  the  first  bend  in  the  lane,  she 
began  to  follow  in  the  same  direction  slowly,  her  mind  not  yet 
made  up.  An  unexpected  incident  decided  her. 

Glancing  furtively  at  the  cheerless  windows  of  the  gaunt 
stone  house,  Olivia  saw,  at  one  of  them,  the  figure  of  an  old 
woman  in  a  black  dress  and  widow's  cap,  who  watched  the  girl 
with  evident  interest,  and  at  last  opened  the  front  door  and 
began  making  signs  to  her.  Olivia  stopped.  The  signs  were 
plainly  an  invitation  to  come  in.  She  advanced  as  far  as  the 
gate,  and  then  the  old  woman  addressed  her. 

"  Won't  you  step  inside  a  minute  out  of  the  rain?  Come 
in,  come  in;  there's  nobody  about  but  me." 

This  decided  Olivia,  who  recognized  the  speaker  as  Vernon's 
housekeeper,  whom  she  had  seen  at  Rishton  Church  on  Sun- 
days. So  she  walked  up  the  stone-paved  path,  and  thanking 
the  old  woman  for  the  proffered  shelter,  followed  her  into  a 
hall,  the  desolate  and  bare  appearance  of  which  corresponded 
perfectly  with  that  of  the  exterior  of  the  house. 

'*  I  think  you'd  better  come  into  my  room,  miss,  though  it's 
really  only  the  back  kitchen,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  But 
Mr.  Brander,  being  out  to-day,  lunching  up  at  the  Hall  Farm, 
as  you  know,  miss,  there's  no  fire  in  his  room." 

Olivia  assenting  gratefully,  the  old  woman  led  her  past  the 
open  door  of  a  comfortless  and  dingy  room  on  the  left,  which 
might  have  been  either  dining-room  or  study,  past  a  second 
door  on  the  same  side,  which  was  closed,  to  a  small  apartment 
at  the  back,  where  a  bright  fire,  a  cat  on  the  hearth-rug,  a 
bird  in  its  cage,  and  a  cushioned  rocking-chair,  gave  a  look  of 
comfort  which  was  a  welcome  relief  to  the  cheerless  aspect  of 
the  rest  of  the  house.  An  open  door  led  into  the  kitchen, 
and  gave  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  fire-light  shining  on  well-pol- 
ished pots  and  pans. 

The  housekeeper  broke  into  ejaculations  of  alarm  as  she 
touched  the  girl's  wet  garments. 

"Bless  me!  you're  soaked  to  the  skin!"  she  cried,  begin- 
ning instantly  to  divest  Olivia  of  her  outer  garments  with  a 
vigorous  hand.  "  Come  upstairs  with  me.  Yes,  you  must; 


ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  127 

it  would  be  manslaughter  on  my  part  to  let  you  stay  five  min- 
utes in  those  clothes.  I  believe  you've  caught  a  fever  already/' 

Fatigue,  excitement,  cold,  and  wet  had  done  their  work  on 
Olivia,  who  began  to  look  and  to  feel  ill.  She  resisted  for  a 
few  moments  the  housekeeper's  well-meant  endeavors  to  drag 
her  to  the  door,  but  yielded  at  last,  and  suffered  herself  to  be 
taken  upstairs,  and  arrayed  from  head  to  foot  in  garments  be- 
longing to  her  hostess  which,  if  neither  well-fitting  nor  fash- 
ionable, were  at  least  dry.  Mrs.  Warmington,  for  that,  she 
informed  Olivia,  was  her  name,  assured  the  girl  that  she  would 
have  plenty  of  time  to  have  her  outer  garments  dried,  and  to 
get  away  home  before  Mr.  Brander  returned,  as  it  was  his  day 
for  visiting  an  outlying  part  of  his  straggling  parish. 

"And,"  she  said,  "he  will  no  doubt  go  straight  on  from 
the  Hall  Farm  after  luncheon,  and  won't  be  back  here  until 
tea-time. " 

' '  Without  having  had  anything  to  eat,"  thought  poor  Olivia. 
She  let  herself  be  led  down-stairs  again,  noting,  as  she  did  so, 
that  no  visible  corner  of  the  house,  except  such  parts  of  it  as 
came  within  the  housekeeper's  special  province,  was  one  whit 
more  comfortable  or  home-like  than  the  bare  hall.  A  pang 
of  acute  pity  for  the  lonely  man  pierced  her  heart  as  she  de- 
cided that,  whatever  sin  he  might  earlier  in  life  have  been 
guilty  of,  no  expiation  could  be  more  complete  than  his  dreary 
life  in  this  desolate  house,  with  only  an  old  woman  for  com- 
panion. And  Mrs.  WarmiEgton  did  not  strike  her  as  the  most 
devoted  servant  or  the  most  sympathetic  personality  in  the 
world.  She  had  "  seen  better  days,"  evidently;  but  although 
she  did  not  flaunt  the  fact  unduly,  it  perhaps  gave  her  a  little 
additional  aggressiveness  of  manner,  so  that,  in  spite  of  her 
kindness,  Olivia  felt  that  one  must  be  hard  up  for  companion- 
ship to  seek  Mrs.  Warmington's  society.  The  girl  was  indeed 
struck  by  the  difference  between  the  warm  kindliness  the  old 
woman  showed  to  herself  and  the  rather  off-hand  manner  in 
which  she  alluded  to  her  employer.  She  began  to  puzzle  her 
head  as  to  the  reason  of  this,  and  grew  very  anxious  to  find 
out  in  what  esteem  the  clergyman  was  held  by  his  solitary  de- 
pendent. After  a  little  conversation  by  the  fireside,  during 
which  the  warmth  came  gradually  back  to  her  shivering  limbs, 
she  put  out  a  feeler  in  this  direction. 

"  It's  a  very  lonely  life  that  you  and  Mr.  Brander  lead  up 
here,"  she  said,  looking  into  the  fire,  and  hoping  that  she  did 
not  betray  in  which  of  the  two  lives  she  took  the  greater  in- 
terest. 

"  You  may  well  say  lonely.     It's  a  godsend  to  see  a  human 


128  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

creature  about.  I  could  have  blessed  the  rain  to-day  for  bring- 
ing you  here. " 

11 1  suppose  it's  even  worse  for  you  than  for  Mr.  Brander, 
because  he  has  his  parish  duties?" 

"  Well,  I'm  of  a  more  contented  turn  of  mind  than  he," 
said  Mrs.  Warmington,  with  the  same  coolness  that  she  had 
previously  shown  on  the  subject  of  her  master.  "  But,  then, 
to  be  sure,  perhaps  I've  a  better  conscience." 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes.  Mrs.  Warmington 
gave  the  impression  of  being  ready  to  be  questioned,  but  Olivia 
was  shy  of  taking  advantage  of  the  fact.  The  housekeeper 
glanced  at  her  from  time  to  time,  as  if  hoping  for  some  com- 
ment on  her  words.  At  last,  as  none  came,  she  looked  her 
visitor  full  in  the  face,  and  said: 

"  I  see  you  know  the  story.  Every  one  does,  more  or  less; 
though  there  are  not  many  who  know  the  rights  of  it  as  well 
as  I  do." 

Olivia's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still. 

"  But  you  don't  think  him  guilty?"  burst  from  her  lips,  in 
a  tone  which  expressed  more  anxiety  than  she  guessed.  You 
know  him,  perhaps,  better  than  anybody;  you  know  that  he 
isn't  capable  of  anything  so  cruel,  so  base. " 

Mrs.  Warmington  pursed  up  her  withered  lips  in  a  judicial 
manner,  poked  the  fire,  and  put  on  a  fresh  supply  of  coal,  all 
with  an  air  of  being  the  chosen  keeper  of  some  great  mystery. 
Olivia  watched  her,  but  without  asking  any  more  questions; 
she  felt  heartsick,  miserable.  Other  people  might  guess;  this 
old  woman  probably  knew.  At  last  the  housekeeper  solemnly 
broke  silence. 

"  It's  hardly  a  tale  for  a  young  lady's  ears;  perhaps  it 
almost  seems  like  a  breach  of  confidence  on  my  part  to  touch 
upon  my  employer's  secrets  at  all.  But  he  has  never  made  a 
confidante  of  me,  and  if  there's  any  one  in  the  world  who 
might  use  the  knowledge  I  possess  to  Mr.  Brander's  disadvan- 
tage, I  know  it  is  not  you. " 

The  young  girl  felt  a  shame-faced  flush  rising  in  her  cheeks. 
This  woman  spoke  in  a  significant  tone,  implying  that  the 
depth  of  the  interest  Olivia  took  in  her  master  was  not  un- 
known to  her.  The  girl  turned  her  head  a  little  away,  and 
stared  at  the  fire  with  statuesque  stillness  while  her  companion 
continued: 

"  To  begin  with,  I  may  tell  you  that  the  Branders  are  dis- 
tant relations  of  mine.  It  does  not  make  me  love  them  the 
more,  but  it  will  prove  to  you  that  I  have  no  interest  in  mak- 
ing them  out  to  be  worse  than  they  are. " 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  129 

Olivia  assented  with  a  slight  bend  of  the  head. 

"  I  don't  deny  that  I  have  noticed  the  interest  you  take  in 
my  master,  and  as  you  are  an  inexperienced  young  girl,  with 
some  warm-hearted,  and  perhaps  rather  quixotic,  notions,  I 
think  it  right  to  put  you  in  possession  of  the  facts  of  this  busi- 
ness, as  I  know  them. " 

Olivia  glanced  at  the  woman  and  saw  that,  in  spite  of  the 
dry  hardness  of  her  manner,  there  was  a  kindly  look  in  her 
eyes.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Warmington,  whose  heart  was  a  little 
parched  toward  the  world  in  general,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
bright-cheeked,  handsome  girl. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "that  the  Branders 
pride  themselves  upon  being  what  is  called  a  *  good  '  family. 
You  will  also  know  that  in  all  '  good '  families  there  is  gener- 
ally more  than  one  '  bad  lot. '  Although  I  am  a  connection 
of  theirs,  I  must  confess  that  there  has  been  quite  an  excep- 
tional number  among  the  Branders.  And,  awkwardly  enough, 
it  happens  that  the  family  interest  lies  chiefly  in  the  Church. 
The  Branders  have  been  clergymen  for  generations,  generally 
with  little  credit  to  themselves.  Here  and  there  has  been  an 
exception,  but  never  more  than  one  in  a  generation;  the  ex- 
ception in  our  time  is  Meredith.  His  two  brothers,  Vernon 
and  one  who  is  now  in  China,  showed  from  the  very  first  how 
unfit  they  were  for  their  calling.  1  don't  blame  them  much; 
I  don't  praise  Meredith  much;  their  temperaments  are  differ- 
ent, and  it  can  scarcely  be  called  their  fault  that  only  one  of 
the  three  is  a  round  peg  in  a  round  hole.  Well,  you  know 
that  both  my  master  and  his  brother,  Meredith,  fixed  their 
choice  on  the  same  lady,  and  that  Meredith  married  her. 
After  that,  Vernon,  who  was  no  particular  credit  to  his  cloth 
before,  grew  wilder  than  ever.  It  was  not  long  before  his 
constant  visits  to  the  Hall  Farm  became  the  talk  of  the  vil- 
lage; for  Nellie  Mitchell  hadn't  the  best  name  in  the  world. 
Before  long  it  was  rumored  about  that  the  girl  had  been  seen, 
late  in  the  evening,  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Cuthbert's." 

"  Did  you  live  here  then?"  abruptly  asked  Olivia,  who  had 
been  sitting  in  an  attitude  of  straining  attention,  with  close- 
shut  lips  and  heaving  breast. 

"  I  had  been  here  six  weeks  when — when  the  end  came. 
Tongues  had  been  going  faster  than  ever  for  the  last  week  or 
two,  and,  of  course,  some  of  the  talk  had  reached  my  ears.  I 
knew,  from  little  things  I  had  seen — a  portrait,  a  glove,  slight 
changes  in  his  manner  when  speaking  of  her — that  my  master 
had  not  yet  got  over  his  fancy  for  Mrs.  Brander,  married 
though  she  was.  Then  I  heard  whispers  of  Nellie  Mitchell's 

5 


130  ST.   CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER. 

jealousy;  how  she  flaunted  past  the  vicar's  wife  in  the  church- 
yard on  Sunday  with  a  swing  in  her  walk  and  a  toss  of  her 
head  which  were  almost  insults;  of  letters  which  were  left  in  a 
wood  close  by,  some  of  which  fell  into  strange  hands.  I  was 
shocked  by  these  reports,  but  I  looked  upon  them  as  partly 
gossip,  and  considered  that,  in  any  case,  they  were  no  business 
of  mine.  One  evening  in  August  1  was  standing  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  front  room  watching  the  sunset,  when  1  saw  Nellie 
Mitchell  coming  down  the  lane  past  the  house.  Something  in 
the  girl's  appearance  and  manner  struck  me  as  it  had  never 
done  before.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  1  had  seen  her 
come  this  way;  but  on  all  previous  occasions  it  had  been  after 
dark  that  I  had  seen  a  figure  which  1  believed  to  be  hers  slink- 
ing past  hurriedly,  as  if  anxious  to  escape  notice.  Now  the 
girl  walked  boldly — one  would  have  said  defiantly — with  a 
lushed  face  and  an  expression  of  reckless  resolution.  She 
carried  in  her  hand  a  small  white  packet,  and,  as  she  came 
opposite  the  house,  she  stopped,  and,  turning  so  as  to  face  the 
gate,  deliberately  untied  the  string  or  ribbon  which  held  her 
little  parcel  together,  and  counted  the  letters  of  which  it  con- 
sisted. One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven.  I  could  see  her 
red  lips  move  as  she  counted  them  out  to  herself,  and  then 
slowly  tied  them  up  again  with  one  angry  and  determined  look 
up  at  the  windows  of  this  house  from  her  bold  black  eyes. 
She  did  not  see  me;  but  it  was  evident  that  if  a  hundred  peo- 
ple had  been  staring  at  her  out  of  these  empty,  shutterless 
windows,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same  to  her.  I  was 
shocked,  horror-stricken.  For  the  first  time  the  full  meaning 
of  all  the  ugly  rumors  I  had  heard  became  plain  to  me;  my 
master  had  been  this  woman's  lover. " 

Olivia  shivered  at  the  woman's  words,  which  seemed  doubly 
shocking  from  the  matter-of-fact,  somewhat  hard  tone  in 
which  they  were  spoken. 

"  As  the  evening  went  on,  I  grew  more  and  more  restless 
and  uneasy.  Certain  noises  I  had  heard  from  time  to  time  in 
the  night,  which  I  had  put  down  to  the  rats,  came  back  to  my 
mind.  It  now  seemed  to  me  that  they  might  have  been  due 
to  another  cause.  They  had  come  from  one  of  the  front  un- 
used rooms.  If  thoughts  of  evil  now  came  into  my  mind, 
how  could  I  be  blamed?  My  master  was  away,  doing  his 
rounds  in  the  parish;  he  had  told  me  he  should  not  be  back 
till  late.  All  the  rest  of  the  evening  1  watched  from  the  win- 
dow, but  I  did  not  see  the  girl  return.  The  thought  came 
into  my  mind  to  go  out  and  try  and  find  out  where  she  had 
gone;  whether  she  was  really,  as  the  villagers'  hints  suggested, 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  131 

waiting  for  some  one  in  the  church-yard.  But  I  was  afraid;  I 
had  no  mind  to  interfere  in  other  people's  affairs;  it  has  always 
been  my  custom  not  to  do  so.  For  a  young  girl  like  you  I  am 
ready  to  break  my  rule,  but  not  for  such  as  Nellie  Mitchell. " 
And  Mrs.  Warmington's  lips  closed  pharisaically. 

"  Nine  o'clock  came,  ten  o'clock,  half  past  ten;  it  was  quite 
dark.  Then,  as  1  was  walking  up  and  down,  with  an  attack 
of  what  I  call  the  '  fidgets/  there  came  through  the  open  win- 
dows a  scream  so  shrill,  so  horrible,  that  I  staggered  into  the 
nearest  chair  as  if  a  blow  from  a  strong  man's  arm  had  sent 
me  there.  *  Nellie  Mitchell!  Nellie  Mitchell!'  I  felt  myself 
saying,  hoarsely.  Then  I  think  I  fainted,  for  what  I  remem- 
ber next  was  to  find  myself  hanging  over  the  chair  with  my 
head  on  Mr.  Vernon's  writing-table.  I  got  up,  at  first  scarce- 
ly knowing  what  it  was  that  had  startled  me.  I  was  in  utter 
darkness;  in  my  first  spasm  of  horror  I  had  thrown  down  the 
lamp.  As  I  groped  about  to  find  a  match,  my  fingers  trem- 
bling so  much  that  they  were  clumsy  and  almost  powerless,  I 
heard  a  footstep  outside  the  door.  It  was  my  master,  Vernon 
Brander! 

"  I  stopped  in  my  search,  and  drew  back  instinctively,  as  I 
heard  him  fumbling  at  the  handle  of  the  room  door.  It 
seemed  such  a  long  time  before  he  came  hi  that  the  whole  of 
this  ugly  story — the  villagers'  gossip,  the  sight  I  had  seen,  and 
the  sound  I  had  heard  that  evening — all  seemed  to  pass  quite 
slowly  through  my  mind  as  I  stood  there  waiting  for  him  to 
come  in.  At  last  the  door  opened  slowly,  and  my  master 
stood  in  the  room  with  me.  I  heard  his  breath  coming  in 
guttural  gasps;  I  heard  the  table  creak  and  the  objects  on  it 
rattle  as  he  came  forward  and  leaned  upon  it.  1  almost 
shrieked,  middle-aged,  matter-of-fact  woman  that  I  was,  when 
he  suddenly  whispered,  in  a  hoarse  voice: 

"  '  Who's  that?' 

"I  summoned  self-command  enough  to  answer,  pretty 
steadily: 

"'It's  I,  sir.' 

"  He  got  up  from  the  table,  and  turned  toward  the  door; 
but  an  impulse  seized  me  to  learn  what  I  could  then.  I  re- 
membered with  a  sort  of  inspiration,  where  the  matches  were, 
found  them,  and  struck  a  light.  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  my 
master's  hands  as  he  opened  the  door;  they  were  stained  with 
blood! 

"'What  have  you  done?  You  have  killed  her!'  I  hissed 
out  close  to  him. 


132  ST.     CUTHBERT  S    TOWER. 

"  '  Before  Heaven  I  have  not!'  he  answered,  huskily;  but 
his  teeth  were  chattering,  and  his  eyes  were  glassy  and  fixed. 

"  Then,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  with  a  groan,  he 
turned  and  staggered  out  of  the  room.  As  he  did  so  he  dropped 
something,  which  I  picked  up  and  examined  without  scruple. 
I  admit  that  this  was  high-handed,  but  when  you  are  almost  a 
witness  to  a  foul  action,  you  make  new  laws  for  yourself  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  By  this  time  I  had  quite  recovered 
myself.  1  lighted  a  candle,  and  read  every  word  of  the  letters 
which  Nellie  Mitchell  had  flourished  before  my  face  that  even- 
ing. There  were  no  names  used.  The  gentleman  had  insisted 
upon  caution,  as  the  girl  over  and  over  again  complained. 
For  these  letters  were  hers,  and  as  each  successive  one  was  full 
of  more  and  more  bitter  reproaches  against  her  lover,  I  guessed 
that  it  was  the  return  of  her  letters  which  had  at  last  goaded 
the  girl  to  desperation.  Her  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Brander  was  ex- 
pressed on  every  page,  and  the  last  contained  a  threat  of  ex- 
posure. It  was  evident  that,  whatever  the  girl's  character 
might  have  been,  she  was  bitterly  in  earnest  over  this  passion. 
In  spite  of  myself,  the  burning  words,  guilty  though  they  were, 
filled  me  with  a  kind  of  pity,  increased  by  the  awful  suspicion 
which  now  possessed  me.  I  felt  the  hot  tears  fall  upon  the 
papers  in  my  hands,  and  I  was  so  absorbed  in  my  reading  that 
1  did  not  hear  my  master  come  into  the  room  again ;  for  the 
door  had  been  left  open.  When  at  last  I  heard  his  tread  close 
behind  me  I  started,  but  did  not  attempt  to  hide  how  I  was 
engaged.  He  did  not  seem  startled  to  see  the  letters  in  my 
hand,  but,  taking  them  from  me,  he  read  them  right  through, 
one  by  one,  and  then  placed  them  in  his  desk.  His  face  was 
as  white  as  that  of  a  dead  man,  and  the  hands  he  had  just 
washed  were  livid  round  the  nails.  He  looked  the  wreck  of 
the  man  who  had  gone  out  to  his  work  that  afternoon  in  the 
August  sunshine.  When  he  had  shut  his  desk,  he  turned  very 
calmly  to  me  and  said: 

"  '  You  will  leave  me  to-morrow,  of  course;  but  you  had 
better  not  go  very  far,  as  there  will  be  an  inquiry — an  inquest; 
all  sorts  of  things — and  your  evidence  will  be  important — 
against  me. ' 

'  Those  last  two  words  decided  me.  My  life  was  my  own. 
This  man  was  my  own  kin.  I  answered,  as  calmly  as  he  had 
spoken  to  me: 

'  You  are  my  master,  sir,  and  of  my  own  blood.  I  shall 
stay  with  you  as  long  as  you  please  to  keep  me.  If  your  con- 
science is  bad,  I  shall  be  an  everlasting  prick  to  it;  if  it  is 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  133 

clear,  as  I  pray  Heaven,  you  will  have  at  least  one  friend  when 
you  most  want  one. ' } 

Olivia  started  up  all  on  fire. 

"  That  was  good  of  you!  that  was  noble  of  you!"  she  cried, 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  a  woman  likes  to 
do.  A  little  cheap  quixotism — that  is  all;  and  I  secured  my- 
self a  home  for  life,  you  see.  I  was  no  young  girl  that  I  should 
be  afraid  of  him." 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  it  was  the  cynicism  or  the 
kindliness  which  predominated  in  Mrs.  Warmington's  motives, 
or  whether  they  were  there  in  equal  proportions.  As  Olivia 
stared  wonderingly  into  the  withered  and  somewhat  inexpress- 
ive face,  the  housekeeper  rose  somewhat  abruptly  from  her 
seat. 

"  That  is  Mr.  Brander's  step!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  turned 
to  the  door.  "  If  you  stay  here,  you  will  be  able  to  slip  out 
presently  without  his  seeing  you. " 

With  these  words,  leaving  Olivia  no  time  to  protest,  or  even 
answer  her,  the  housekeeper  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

OLIVIA'S  first  thought,  as  the  door  closed  on  Mrs.  Warm- 
ington,  was  to  follow  her  out  and  make  a  dash  for  freedom. 
But  as  she  started  up  with  this  impulse,  a  sliding  movement 
on  the  part  of  the  garments  she  wore  reminded  her  that  she 
was  not  in  walking  trim;  and  a  glance  at  the  gilt-framed  but 
mildewy  glass  which  adorned  the  housekeeper's  mantel-piece 
showed  her  such  a  comical  figure  that  the  instincts  of  maiden- 
ly coquetry  would  never  have  allowed  her  to  risk  a  meeting 
with  vernon  Brander  in  that  odd  disguise. 

Mrs.  Warmington's  figure  was  of  the  straight-up-and-down 
sort — long  in  the  body  and  short  in  the  limbs.  Being  a  lady 
of  frugal  bent  and  careful  habits,  she  wore  her  dresses  for  so 
long  a  time  that  they  acquired  enough  of  the  shape  and  char- 
acter of  the  owner  to  impart  the  same  characteristics  to  any 
subsequent  wearer.  Therefore,  Olivia's  glance  in  the  mirror 
showed  her  a  woman  in  dark-brown  stuff  of  slipshod  fit,  with 
a  substantial  square  waist,  and  baggy  sleeves  too  short  in  the 
wrist.  After  one  despairing  look  out  of  the  window  at  the 
rain,  which  went  on  falling  in  torrents,  she  sat  down  again 
disconsolately  to  listen  and  wait  for  her  hostess's  return. 

Mrs.  Warmington  had  not  met  her  master  on  her  way  up- 


134  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

stairs,  for  Olivia  had  heard  him  go  into  the  front  room  before 
the  housekeeper  left  her;  that  she  might  be  equally  lucky  on 
her  way  down  was  the  girl's  inward  prayer.  For  there  were 
ominous  sounds  in  the  house  suggesting  that  Mr.  Brander  was 
not  minded  to  sit  down  quietly  to  the  writing  of  a  sermon  or 
the  reading  of  a  good  book,  as  one  had  a  clear  right  to  expect 
of  a  clergyman.  Poor  Olivia,  sitting  upright  as  a  ramrod, 
with  a  scared  expression  of  face,  heard  him  come  out  of  the 
dining-room  into  the  hall.  By  the  noise  he  made  at  the  hat 
and  coat  stand,  she  guessed  that  he  was  changing  his  wet  coat 
for  a  dry  one.  That  business  over,  he  ought  plainly  to  have 
returned  to  his  room;  so  it  seemed  to  Olivia.  But  instead  of 
that,  he  remained  f  umbling  at  the  stand  until  the  listening 
girl  remembered,  with  a  spasm  of  terror,  that  she  had  left 
there  to  dry,  by  the  housekeeper's  directions,  her  little  hand- 
bag. Perhaps  Mr.  Brander  would  pass  it  over,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  the  flimsy  little  feminine  thing  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Warmmgton.  No  woman  would  have  thought  so;  but,  of 
course,  men  are  not  observant.  Her  worst  fear  was  that  he 
would  remain  there,  not  making  enough  noise  to  put  the 
housekeeper  on  her  guard,  until  that  lady  should  come  sailing 
down  the  stairs  laden  with  a  hat  and  cloak  which  evidently  did 
not  belong  to  her.  The  girl  scarcely  dared  to  draw  breath  in 
her  intense  anxiety.  To  be  caught  sneaking  into  a  gentle- 
man's house  in  his  absence,  warming  yourself  at  his  fire,  and 
even — as  she  discovered  to  her  dismay  on  examining  her  feet 
— making  free  with  his  slippers,  is  an  awkward  situation  at  any 
time.  But  when  you  have  just  been  told  the  secret  of  his  life, 
and  when  your  whole  soul  is  warring  about  him,  mercy  strug- 
gling with  horror,  and  conviction  with  doubt,  the  dilemma  be- 
comes well-nigh  tragic. 

Presently  Olivia  heard  him  drop  some  object,  and  the  little 
crash  it  made  caused  her  to  shiver  and  almost  to  cry  out. 
Then  he  began  to  cross  the  uncarpeted  hall  with  very  slow 
steps.  Olivia  attained  her  ears  and  held  her  breath.  He  was 
coming  toward  the  room  she  was  in.  Had  he  guessed  the 
presence  of  an  intruder,  or  was  he  only  coming  with  the 
prosaic  intention  of  ordering  something  to  eat?  The  girl  re- 
membered with  remorse  how  he  had  been  cheated  out  of  his 
luncheon-  But  what  should  she  do?  Already  she  heard  him 
calling,  in  a  low  and,  as  she  fancied,  tired  voice,  "  Mrs. 
Warmmgton!"  There  was  no  time  to  escape  by  way  of  the 
kitchen — no  corner  of  the  room  where  she  could  hide  herself. 
As  she  stood  up  to  give  one  last  hopeless  look  round,  she  again 
caught  sight  of  her  disguised  figure  in  the  glass.  Seized  by  a 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  135 

happy  thought,  she  snatched  up  from  the  top  of  one  of  the 
side  cupboards,  that  filled  the  space  between  the  fire-place  and 
the  walls,  a  small  woolen  shawl  of  rusty  black,  which  Mrs. 
Warmington  used  to  wrap  round  her  head  when  she  indulged 
in  an  afternoon  doze.  Olivia  now  blessed  her  fervently  for 
this  information.  She  had  just  time  to  wrap  it  round  her 
head,  to  throw  herself  back  in  the  rocking-chair  with  her  head 
turned  away  from  the  door,  to  cross  her  legs  as  Mrs.  Warm- 
ington did,  to  fold  her  arms,  and  hide  her  hands  in  the  folds 
of  the  baggy  sleeves,  when  the  door  opened  softly,  and  Mr. 
Brander  put  his  head  inside. 

"  Mrs.  Warmington!"  he  called,  very  gently. 

No  answer,  of  course. 

"  Are  you  asleep?"  more  gently  still. 

His  housekeeper's  afternoon  doze  was  a  very  common  occur- 
rence apparently,  for  he  uttered  a  little  petulant  sound,  and 
disappeared  into  the  kitchen.  In  the  dusk  of  a  wet  afternoon 
the  girl's  ruse  had  succeeded  perfectly.  But  the  obscurity 
which  had  favored  her  was  not  equally  kind  to  him,  for  Olivia 
heard  much  chinking  of  china  and  clattering  of  plate  before 
he  re-entered  the  room.  Instead  of  going  through  to  his  own 
domain,  however,  he  stood  still  between  the  fire-place  and  the 
door,  and  Olivia,  not^  daring  to  look,  guessed  that  he  was  eat- 
ing. Trembling  as '  she  was  with  the  fear  of  discovery,  it 
seemed  to  her  a  long  time  before  she  heard  him  take  up  the 
poker  and  proceed  very  noiselessly  to  break  the  red-hot  coals. 
She  seized  the  opportunity  to  turn  her  head  a  little,  and  to 
steal  a  frightened  glance  at  him  through  her  eyelashes.  He 
had  on  the  shabbiest  of  threadbare  and  ragged  house-coats,  and 
was  hungrily  eating  bread  and  cheese  and  a  piece  of  dry  and 
crumbling  cake.  When  he  had  built  up  the  fire  to  please  him, 
he  dragged  an  old  church  hassock  from  under  the  table,  and 
seating  himself  on  it,  drew  as  near  to  the  grate  as  possible,  and 
went  on  with  his  improvised  meal. 

He  was  so  close  to  Olivia  that  she  could  detect  the  coally 
smell  which  constant  contact  with  his  mining  parishioners  had 
imparted  to  his  old  clothes;  so  close  that  she  felt  that  he  was 
cold  as  well  as  hungry;  so  close  that  his  hair  brushed  Mrs. 
Warmington's  brown  stuff  gown  as  he  bent  forward,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

And  as  they  sat  thus,  in  the  darkening  twilight,  side  by 
side,  he  unconscious  of  her  presence,  she  grew  less  afraid  that 
he  should  discover  it,  altogether  less  anxious  for  the  safety  of 
her  disguise.  Her  thoughts  turned  instead  to  consideration  of 
his  loneliness.  What  a  cheerless  existence  was  implied  in  this 


136  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

creeping  up  to  the  side  of  a  rather  cold  and  cross-grained  old 
woman  for  warmth  and  companionship!  The  close  contact 
seemed  to  help  Olivia  to  feel  her  way  into  the  mind  of  the  soli- 
tary man.  She  pictured  him  innocent,  laboring  under  a  charge 
which  for  some  unaccountable  reason  he  was  unable  to  refute; 
she  pictured  him  guilty,  torn  with  remorse,  and  working  out 
a  weary  expiation.  In  the  latter  case,  she  began  to  feel,  even 
more  strongly  than  before  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Warming- 
ton,  that  the  horror  of  the  deed  was  swallowed  up  in  compas- 
sion for  the  doer.  When  he  had  finished  his  very  frugal  din- 
ner, he  sat  so  still  that  she  was  able  to  open  her  eyes  and  so 
gain  all  the  information  concerning  the  state  of  his  mind  which 
a  careful  study  of  the  back  of  his  head  could  impart.  He  was 
dejected,  weary,  unhappy;  probably  smarting  still,  so  she  told 
herself,  from  the  pain  her  step-mother's  treatment  had  caused 
him.  Presently  he  rested  his  head  on  his  left  hand,  and  so 
came  nearer  still  to  her.  She  could  fe«l  that  she  was  trem- 
bling from  the  force  of  an  aching  pity,  and  that  her  hands 
seemed  to  tingle  with  the  wish  to  lie  with  consoling  touch  on 
his  bent  head.  She  had  forgotten  Mrs.  Warmington  and  the 
dry  clothes — forgotten  to  wonder  how  she  was  going  to  get  out 
of  the  house  and  home  again  without  discovering  herself  to 
Mr.  Brander.  She  soon  discovered,  however,  that  her  feelings 
were  more  acute  than  those  of  the  object  of  her  pity;  for  his 
head  tilted  slowly  further  and  further  in  her  direction  until  at 
last  it  rested  on  her  knee.  Mr.  Brander,  who,  after  a  fierce 
battle  with  certain  very  unclerical  feelings,  had  tried  to  subdue 
the  mind  to  the  flesh  by  a  long  stretch  over  the  hills,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  tiring  himself  out 

He  was  fast  asleep. 

And  if  he  had  but  known  it,  he  might  have  had  sweeter 
dreams  than  he  was  used  to.  For  the  resting-place  he  had 
found  was  the  creature  who  cared  most  about  him  of  any  in 
the  world. 

Olivia  had  an  inkling  of  this,  and  it  made  the  touch  of  her 
hand  almost  motherly  as  she  bent  down  and  held  it  very,  very 
gently  just  near  enough  to  feel  his  hair  against  her  fingers. 
Only  thirty-four  or  thereabout,  and  his  hair  so  gray!  She 
could  dare  now,  as  he  slept,  to  bend  right  down,  and  to  see  by 
the  fire  light  how  thickly  the  white  threads  grew  among  the 
dark  behind  his  ears  and  near  the  temples.  So  curly  his  hair 
was,  she  noticed;  quite  soft,  too,  and  silky,  like  a  child's;  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  the  worn,  lined  face,  that  looked  so  sad 
and  so  old  as  the  dancing  flames  threw  deep  shadows  upon  it. 
And  her  fingers  moved  involuntarily  through  the  wavy  mass, 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  13? 

as  she  thought,  as  women  will,  that  there  had  been  a  time, 
long  ago,  when  he  lay,  a  helpless  child,  depending  on  the 
kindness  of  a  woman.  And  she  tried  to  fancy  what  that  poor 
mother  would  have  felt  if  she  had  known  what  evil  rumors 
would  some  day  darken  the  name  of  her  curly-haired  boy. 
Olivia  was  by  nature  more  impulsive  and  passionate  than  sen- 
timental; therefore  these  unaccustomed  feelings  and  fancies 
instead  of  finding  vent  hi  a  gentle  sigh,  made  her  breast  heave 
and  her  eyes  fill,  until  a  broken  whisper  slipped  through  her 
trembling  lips: 

"  Poor  mother — poor  son!" 

She  was  ashamed  of  her  foolishness  the  next  moment,  and 
raised  her  head  quickly  with  a  start  and  a  hot,  tingling  blush, 
anxious  to  jump  up  and  run  away,  though  still  not  daring  to 
move.  She  took  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  very  carefully, 
dabbed  it  against  her  wet  eyes  with  much  fierceness,  and  then 
gave  another  glance,  not  at  all  sentimental  this  time,  at  the 
face  against  her  knee.  Horror  and  confusion!  Was  he  asleep 
at  all?  The  expression  of  his  face  had  quite  changed,  and 
there  was  a  wretched  tear — her  tear! — on  his  forehead.  What 
should  she  do?  Remove  that  tear,  certainly.  For  she  felt  that 
it  would  leave  a  huge  stain,  unmistakable  as  ink.  Very  nerv- 
ously she  attempted  to  dry  it  with  her  handkerchief;  but  the 
moment  the  cambric  touched  his  face,  Mr.  Brander  raised  his 
head  and  prevented  her. 

"  Don't!"  he  said,  huskily.  "  Why  should  you?  What  is 
there  to  be  ashamed  of  in  your  kindness  to  me?  Do  I  get  too 
much  from  anybody?" 

Olivia  did  not  answer.  She  felt  as  if  a  new  acquaintance 
had  suddenly  been  sprung  upon  her.  This  mood  was  so  differ- 
ent from  any  she  had  seen  Mr.  Brander  hi  before.  The  half- 
cynical  self-reliance,  the  bright,  somewhat  bitter  humor  had 
disappeared,  and  given  place  to  a  humility  so  touching,  so  gen- 
tle, that  she  felt  constrained  to  remain  where  she  was  rather 
than  risk  hurting  his  feelings  by  rising  abruptly.  But  she 
could  not  answer  his  questions,  and  so  she  sat  silently,  with 
her  head  bent  down  and  turned  a  little  away,  while  he  resumed 
the  position  he  had  first  taken,  with  his  arms  on  his  knees, 
looking  into  the  fire.  After  a  few  moments,  during  which  the 
girl  had  time  to  wonder  that  she  felt,  under  these  rather  awk- 
ward circumstances,  so  much  at  her  ease,  she  broke  the  silence, 
in  a  low,  hesitating  voice. 

"  Mr.  Brander,"  she  began,  "  I  should  like  to  say  something 
to  you  about — about  this  morning — about  Mrs.  Denison." 


138  ST.  CUTHBEET'S  To\\i.n. 

Her  painfully  apologetic  tone  made  him  turn  his  head  at 
once,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  may  say  something  to  me — in  fact  anything — upon 
any  other  subject  than  those  two."  he  answered,  in  his  usual 
kindly  tone.  "  Say  something  to  me  about  this  afternoon  and 
about  yourself.  Let  this  morning — and  Mrs.  Denison — be 
buried.  Mind,  I  say,  this  is  no  unchristian  spirit/' 

"  You  are  very  good/'  said  Olivia,  glancing  at  him  timidly 
and  gratefully. 

"  Do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked,  inquisitively.  "  You  have 
heard  a  good  deal  to  the  contrary,  you  know." 

"  Well,  but  is  all  that  true?"  she  burst  out,  boldly.  "  Now, 
you  have  brought  that  question  upon  yourself  before,  and  now 
you  deliberately  bring  it  upon  yourself  again.  Why  don't  you 
satisfy  me  by  a  straightforward  answer?  1  do  deserve  it;  for 
I  always  take  your  part,  to  other  people  and  to  myself  too." 

"  Do  you?"  he  asked,  so  eagerly,  with  such  a  flash  of  pleas- 
ure over  his  face  that  Olivia  felt  abashed  again.  Then  he 
paused,  and  the  light  had  gone  quite  out  of  his  face  before  he 
went  on:  "  You  won't  be  satisfied  then  with  the  consciousness 
that  you  are  a  poor  beggar's  solitary  champion?" 

"  I  won't  be  satisfied  with  that  if  I  can  get  you  to  tell  me 
any  more,"  she  answered,  simply.  "  I  don't  pretend  that  I'm 
not  anxious  to  know  more;  but  it  is  not  out  of  curiosity  to  learn 
other  people's  affairs,  but  because  there  really  must  be  some- 
thing peculiarly  interesting  about  a  secret  which  causes  your 
own  relations  to  speak  ill  of  you." 

Olivia  had  suddenly  made  up  her  mind  for  a  bold  stroke.  It 
can  not  be  denied  that  there  was  a  litMe  malice  in  her  heart; 
but  it  was  a  small  matter  compared  with  her  real  anxiety  to 
put  him  on  his  guard  against  one  whom  she  considered  a 
treacherous  friend. 

"My  relations!"  he  echoed,  with  a  look  of  such  bewilder- 
ment and  incredulity  that  she  began  to  think  he  would  not  be- 
lieve her. 

"  Isn't  a  sister-in-law  a  kind  of  relation?"  asked  Olivia, 
rather  unsteadily,  after  a  pause. 

Mr.  Brander's  expression  changed  to  one  of  pain  and  fear; 
so  that  Olivia  watched  him  in  terror,  not  daring  to  go  on. 
He  looked  at  her  without  answering,  and  then,  as  she  remained 
silent  and  fearful,  he  got  up  and  walked  to  the  other  side  of 
the  little  room,  where,  as  her  face  was  turned  toward  the  fire- 
place, she  could  not  see  him;  but  she  knew  without  the  aid  of 
her  eyes,  that  he  was  much  agitated;  and  when  he  came  back 
and,  standing  by  her  chair,  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoul- 


ST.     eUTHBEKT'S    TOWEE.  139 

der  and  spoke  to  her  with  calmness  which  might  have  passed 
for  unconcern,  she  was  not  deceived  by  it. 

"  And  what  ill  does  my  sister-in-law  say  of  me?"  he  asked. 

"  She  told  my  step-mother  an  old  story,  and  said  you  were 
not  a  proper  acquaintance  for — young  girls." 

"  Oh,  she  said  that,  did  she?"  returned  Mr.  Brander,  in  a 
measured  voice.  Then  he  said,  abruptly,  after  a  silence, 
"  You  are  sure  of  this?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

Then  it  appeared  to  the  girl  that  he  stood  beside  her  without 
a  word  for  a  very  long  time,  for  the  fire  seemed  to  die  down, 
and  the  murky  light  outside  to  fade  perceptibly,  before  he  even 
changed  his  attitude.  At  last  she  found  courage  to  look  up 
timidly  into  his  face,  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  staring  toward 
the  window  with  the  blind  look  of  a  seer  whose  vision  is  only 
keen  for  the  fancies  and  phantoms  in  his  own  mind.  And 
Mr.  Brander's  fancies  must  have  been  of  the  gloomiest  kind, 
for  his  face  startled  the  girl  into  uttering  a  little  exclamation, 
which  roused  him  from  his  abstraction,  and  woke  him  to  the 
fact  that  his  hand  had  been  laying  all  this  time  on  the  young 
girl's  shoulder. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  muttered,  as  he  withdrew  it  as 
hastily  as  if  it  had  been  red-hot  iron. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Olivia's  face.  The  touch  of  Mr.  Bran- 
der's  hand  had  not  offended  her;  the  knowledge  that  it  had 
been  unconscious  did.  And  a  most  acute  pang  shot  through 
her  heart,  as  she  realized  that  it  was  because  his  mind  was  full 
of  another  woman's  treatment  that  he  was  oblivious  of  her. 
She  was  jealous.  In  such  an  impulsive,  energetic  girl  as  she 
was,  vivid  feeling  found  vent  in  hasty  action.  Rising  from 
her  chair,  and  quite  forgetting  that  her  odd  costume  made 
dignity  impossible,  she  said,  very  coldly,  that  she  must  go 
home  now;  her  father  would  be  anxious  about  her,  and  the 
rain  was  less  violent.  Even  as  she  spoke  the  wind  dashed  a 
clattering  shower  against  the  window  in  disproof  of  her  words. 
She  did  not  notice  it  herself;  neither,  apparently,  did  her  host. 
For  he  opened  the  door  for  her  at  once  without  any  semblance 
of  a  wish  to  detain  her,  and  without  seeming  to  remark  her 
singular  apparel. 

Olivia  darted  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs  in  a  tempest 
of  excited  feelings  which  found  vent  in  an  outburst  of  indigna- 
tion against  Mrs.  Warmington  for  leaving  her  so  long  alone 
with  Mr.  Brander.  The  housekeeper  met  hsr  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs,  looking  herself  pale  and  frightened. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  down?"  asked  Olivia,  impatiently. 


140  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

The  old  woman  glanced  nervously  down  into  the  hall,  and 
answered  in  a  soothing  tone  of  apology: 

"  I  did  not  dare,  Miss  Denison.  I  did  not  want  my  em- 
ployer to  find  me  talking  to  you.  He  would  have  guessed 
what  we  were  talking  about.  We  get  so  sharp,  we  people 
who  live  much  alone,  and  he  would  never  have  forgiven  me. 
Ever  since  I  heard  him  go  into  the  room  where  you  were  1 
have  been  walking  up  and  down  the  landing  in  a  fever.  You 
did  not  tell  him  what  we  had  been  talking  about,  did  you?" 

"  No,"  answered  Olivia.     "  He  didn't  ask  me. " 

"  Thank  goodness!"  said  the  housekeeper,  with  such  a 
depth  of  relief  that  the  girl's  curiosity  was  roused. 

"  Why  should  you  mind  so  much?"  she  asked.  "  He  seems 
quite  used  to  having  his  affairs  discussed,  and  takes  it  for 
granted  that  people  should  think  the  worst  of  him. " 

This  thought  moved  her  as  she  spoke,  and  caused  her  voice 
to  tremble  sympathetically.  The  housekeeper  examined  her 
face  narrowly  as  she  answered,  with  great  discretion : 

"  He  wouldn't  have  minded  about  any  one  else,  Miss  Deni- 
son: but  it's  different  with  you." 

"  Different — with  me!"  echoed  the  girl,  very  softly. 

Without  more  words,  Mrs.  Warmington,  after  once  more 
listening  and  glancing  down  into  the  hall  to  assure  herself  that 
they  were  not  likely  to  be  disturbed,  crossed  the  landing  on 
tiptoe,  and  beckoned  Olivia  to  follow  her.  Then  throwing 
open  the  door  of  one  of  the  front  bedrooms  without  noise,  she 
said: 

"  That  is  Mr.  Brander's  room.  Do  you  see  by  his  bedside  a 
set  of  hanging  shelves  on  the  wall?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  a  box  in  the  middle  of  the  bottom  shelf?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  housekeeper  was  crossing  the  room.  Tak- 
ing down  the  box,  she  returned  to  the  door  with  it,  and,  rais- 
ing the  lid,  showed  Olivia  the  tray  of  an  old-fashioned  work- 
box  with  well-worn  fittings. 

"  It  was  his  mother's,  I  believe,"  she  whispered.  Then,  as 
the  girl  drew  back,  shocked  at  having  been  inveigled  into  pry- 
ing among  Mr.  Brander's  treasures,  she  went  on:  "  Have  you 
ever  seen  this?"  And  lifting  out  the  tray  of  the  work-box, 
she  thrust  under  Olivia's  reluctant  but  astonished  eyes  an 
India-rubber  galoche,  which  Miss  Denison  instantly  recognized 
as  one  she  had  lost  on  her  way  back  from  the  vicarage  on  the 
evening  of  her  arrival  at  Rishton. 

With  a  little  cry  of  astonishment  and  annoyance,  Olivia  put 
out  a  hasty  hand  to  recover  her  lost  property.  But  Mrs. 


ST.   CCTH BERT'S  TOWER.  141 

Warmington  prevented  her,  shutting  the  box  hastily,  and  re- 
storing it  to  its  place. 

"  I  can't  take,  or  allow  you  to  take,  anything  out  of  my 
employer's  boxes  in  his  absence,"  she  said,  dryly. 

"  But  it's  mine;  it's  of  no  use  to  him,  and  I  want  it!" 

"  You  will  have  to  do  without  it,  unless  you  care  to  go  and 
fetch  it  yourself.  But  I  think,  on  second  thoughts,  you  will 
be  satisfied  that  enough  honor  has  been  paid  to  your  old  shoe.'* 

Olivia  blushed,  and  moved  her  shoulders  with  vexation. 

"  It  was  such  a  huge  thing!"  she  exclaimed,  impatiently. 
"  They  were  always  sizes  and  sizes  too  big  for  me." 

Mrs.  Warmington's  thin  lips  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"Oh!"  she  said;  "  perhaps  you  only  wish  to  put  a  smaller 
one  in  its  place. " 

Olivia  felt  that  she  had,  as  her  brothers  would  have  termed 
it,  "  given  herself  away,"  and  she  was  glad  to  let  the  subject 
drop.  Following  her  conductress  into  her  bedroom,  she  put 
on  her  own,  now  dry,  clothes,  in  silence  and  much  meekness, 
thanked  her  in  a  subdued  voice  for  her  hospitality,  and  begged, 
as  a  final  grace,  the  loan  of  an  umbrella. 

"  It  won't  be  necessary.     Mr.  Brander  will  see  you  home." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,"  broke  out  Olivia,  hastily.  "  I  want  to 
slip  out  of  the  house  quietly  without  his  seeing  me  again." 

"  Do  you  really  want  that?"  asked  the  old  woman,  with  a 
searching  look  which  set  the  younger  blushing.  "  Because, 
if  so,  1  can  take  you  down  this  way  by  the  back  staircase.  It 
is  never  used,  but — " 

"  Then,  perhaps,  the  stairs  will  creak,"  interrupted  Olivia, 
and  without  more  delay  she  made,  softly  indeed  but  deliberate- 
ly, for  the  front  staircase. 

"  I  can't  thank  you  enough  for  your  kindness,"  she  whis- 
pered, when  they  both  stood  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Warmington  shook  her  head  with  a  dryly  amused 
smile. 

"  I  had  a  motive,"  she  said.  "  I  am  too  fond  of  my  own 
comfort  to  put  myself  out  of  the  way  without  one." 

"  A  motive!"  echoed  Olivia. 

' '  Yes.  I  wanted  to  know  you  better,  and  I  wanted  you  to 
know  Mr.  Brander  better.  Now  nobody  can  deceive  you 
about  him,  and  nobody  can  deceive  me  about  you. " 

:( Why,  who  would  try?"  asked  Olivia. 

"  Nobody,  perhaps.     Good-bye." 

With  one  glance  toward  the  open  door  of  the  front  room, 
from  which  they  both  heard  the  sounds  of  a  man's  tread,  the 


142  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

housekeeper  shook  her  guest's  hand,  and,  abruptly  leaving 
her,  disappeared  into  her  own  domain  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

Olivia,  who  was  highly  offended  at  this  discovery  that  she 
had  been  "  managed  "  and  made  the  victim  of  a  little  trick, 
walked  to  the  front  door  with  her  head  held  high,  and  a  firm 
intention  of  not  even  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  study. 
But  a  sound  inside  the  room,  as  she  passed  the  door,  broke  her 
resolution,  and  she  gave  a  swift  glance  that  way.  The  look 
revealed  Mr.  Brand  er  standing  beside  the  black,  empty  fire- 
place. That  was  all.  He  saw  her,  and  saw  the  proud  turn  of 
her  head  as  she  instantly  averted  her  eyes.  Then  he  heard 
the  latch  of  the  front  door  as  her  hands  fumbled  with  it;  he 
heard  the  door  open,  and  shut  again  immediately,  very  softly. 
The  next  moment  there  was  a  hesitating  step  back  across  the 
hall,  and  the  young  girFs  face  was  looking  into  the  dingy 
room. 

"  Please  will  you  open  the  door  for  me,  Mr.  Brander?  I — I 
don't  quite  understand  the  lock." 

He  came  at  once,  and  did  the  little  service  without  a  word. 
She  looked  out;  it  was  still  raining  persistently,  the  heavy 
downpour  having  been  succeeded  by  a  fine  drizzle. 

"  It  hasn't  left  off  yet,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  No." 

They  both  stood  still,  looking  out  into  the  gathering  dark- 
ness. 

"  Shall  I  lend  you  an  umbrella?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  would,  I  should  be  so  glad.  1  will  be  sure  to 
bring — send  it  back. " 

He  brought  an  umbrella  from  the  stand,  and  opened  it 
thoughtfully. 

"  If  I  lend  you  this  one — it  is  the  best,  the  lightest;  the  one 
I  use  when  there's  a  bishop  about — I  shall  want  it  again  early 
to-morrow  morning — " 
'  I'll  be  sure  to—" 

'  Very  early,"  he  continued,  without  heeding  her. 
*  Then  let  me  have  the  old  one." 

'  It's  full  of  holes.     Besides,  one  of  the  ribs  is  broken." 
'  Oh,  never  mind.     I  can  quite  well  get  back  without  one 
at  all." 

"  It  might  be  managed,"  suggested  Vernon,  guiltily,  when 
he  had  produced  and  examined  carefully  the  second-best  um- 
brella, which  proved  to  be  only  a  little  better  than  its  reputa- 
tion. "  If  I  were  to  walk  part  of  the  way  back  with  you,  it 
might  clear  up,  and  you  might  be  able  to  get  home  without 
one;  and  I  could  bring  it  back,  you  see." 


ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWER.  143 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  trouble.  Fm  always  imposing,"  mur- 
mured Olivia. 

However,  the  half  permission  had  been  enough  for  Mr. 
Brander,  who  was  by  this  time  slipping  into  his  rough  overcoat 
with  the  alacrity  of  the  British  workman  at  the  sound  of  the 
first  stroke  of  six. 

Worse  conditions  for  a  pleasant  walk  through  the  fields  and 
lanes  can  scarcely  be  imagined  than  a  March  evening  after  a 
pouring  wet  day,  a  fine  rain  falling,  the  ground  ankle-deep  in 
mud,  and  the  darkness  already  so  thick  that  an  occasional  slip 
into  puddle  was  unavoidable.  They  had  to  walk  in  most  un- 
even, jolting  fashion  to  find  a  path  at  all  through  the  steepest 
part  of  the  lane.  Sometimes  Olivia  had  to  take  Mr.  Brander's 
arm  to  keep  her  footing  at  all,  and  once  he  had  to  help  her  to 
jump  over  a  miniature  torrent.  They  scarcely  talked  at  all, 
but  a  warm  sense  of  human  sympathy  and  mutual  help  grew 
so  strong  between  them  that  when  they  came  to  a  particularly 
ugly  quagmire  their  eyes  would  meet  with  a  smile  and  a  nod, 
and  they  would  go  on  again  very  happily.  At  last,  when  they 
got  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  both  instinctively  stopped  for 
breath  at  the  same  moment,  Olivia  looked  up  and  said,  shyly 
and  simply: 

"  Did  you  know  it  was  I — all  the  time?" 

"  I  knew  it  was  you  when  1  felt — something  on  my  face.  I 
was  asleep,  and  it  woke  me. " 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  murmured  she. 

"  Don't  apologize.  You  may  cry  over  me  just  as  much  as 
you  like." 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  then  they  went  on  again,  but  with- 
out exchanging  any  more  looks,  until  they  came  suddenly, 
without  having  realized  that  they  were  so  near,  to  the  bottom 
of  the  vicarage  hill.  He  glanced  up  it,  and  Olivia  caught  the 
expression  of  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  not  going  there — to  the  vicarage?"  she  burst  out, 
impulsively. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  he  answered,  with  a  dogged  look  of  anger 
and  scorn  on  his  face. 

The  girl,  drawing  a  long,  sobbing  breath,  retreated  a  step 
without  speaking. 

Vernou  stopped  and  looked  into  her  face  almost  with  the 
boldness  of  a  lover. 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  little  above  a  whisper. 

"  Why  not,  indeed,  Mr.  Brander!"  she  said,  coldly,  but 
without  succeeding  in  hiding  a  break  in  her  voice;  "  if  the 
friends  you  can't  trust  are  of  more  value  than  those  you  can. " 


144  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  It  is  uot  a  question  of  that,  Miss  Denison." 

"  Isn't  it?"  she  broke  in,  quickly.  "  I  think  it  is.  You 
go  in  all  cold  indignation,  and  come  out  all  hot  remorse 
and  repentance.  And  you  will  never  see  that  lessons  in  patient 
self-sacrifice  are  all  the  good  you  will  ever  get  out  of  the  vicar- 
age!" 

Vernon  started  violently,  and  fell  to  shivering. 

Shocked  at  the  strong  effect  of  her  bold  words,  Olivia  re- 
mained silently  and  humbly  waiting  for  the  reproaches  she  ex- 
pected. 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

OLIVIA  DENISON'S  outburst  against  the  vicarage  folk  and 
their  treatment  of  Vernon  Brander  seemed  to  overwhelm  the 
latter  with  consternation.  He  stood  before  the  impulsive  girl 
as  if  benumbed  by  her  vehemence;  and  it  was  not  until  her 
restless  movements  and  bending  head  showed  that  she  felt  un- 
comfortable and  ashamed  of  herself  that  he  tried  to  speak  and 
to  reassure  her.  For  it  was  evident  that  she  thought  her 
boldness  had  deeply  offended  him. 

"  You  do  them  injustice,  Miss  Denison.  Though  1  know 
it's  only  through  your  kind  feeling  for  me.  There  is  nothing 
my  brother  would  not  do  for  me;  he  always  takes  my  part 
most  valiantly. " 

"  Ah,  your  brother,  perhaps.  But  Mrs.  Brander!  She 
doesn't.  And  a  woman  can  do  you  more  harm  by  raising  her 
eyebrows  at  the  mention  of  your  name  than  a  man  could  by 
preaching  a  course  of  sermons  against  you." 

"  But  why  should  she?    Miss  Denison,  I  can't  believe  it." 

"  Do  you  believe  what  I  tell  you,  that  Mrs.  Brander  warned 
my  step-mother  against  admitting  you  into  her  house?" 

'*  I  must  believe  it,  since  you  say  it  is  true.  But  I  am  sure 
there  must  be  some  explanation — " 

"  Of  course  there  will  be  an  explanation;  and  one  that  will 
satisfy  you  perfectly,  I  have  no  doubt,"  interrupted  Olivia, 
impatiently.  "  Mrs.  Brander  will  be  able  to  explain  every- 
thing, and  make  you  see  how  entirely  right  and  natural  it  is 
that  you  should  have  no  friends  but  those  at  the  vicarage." 

She  saw  by  the  change  in  his  face  that  she  had  succeeded  in 
sowing  the  seed  of  what  she  considered  a  wholesome  suspicion 
in  his  mind;  and  rather  afraid  of  trusting  herself  to  further 
speak  on  a  matter  which  lay  nearer  her  heart  than  she  cared 
to  show,  she  held  out  her  hand  abruptly,  saying  with  a  break 
in  her  voice: 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  145 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Brander." 

She  knew  he  was  grateful  for  her  interest  in  him;  she  knew 
he  had  that  day  been  happy  in  her  society.  But  she  was  quite 
unprepared  for  the  flash  of  passionate  feeling  which  suddenly 
shone  out  of  his  dark,  thin  face  at  the  touch  of  her  hand.  It 
was  like  the  wild  gratitude  of  a  starving  man  for  food,  which 
he  seizes  ravenously,  and  for  which  he  can  utter  no  articulate 
thanks.  Olivia  was  almost  frightened  by  it,  and  her  hand 
trembled  as  he  clutched  it  in  his. 

"  Good  -night,"  he  said;  "  good  -night.  I  had  forgotten 
what  such  a  thing  was — as  a  friend — until — until  you  came. 
They  are  very  good — my  sister-in-law,  and  even  my  old  house- 
keeper. But  they  are  cold;  at  least,  they  are  not  like  you. 
There  is  something  in  the  very  touch  of  your  hand,  in  the 
kindness  of  your  eyes,  that  warms  one  and  makes  one  feel — 
human  again.  God  bless  you,  Miss  Denison !" 

He  had  hurried  out  his  words  so  fast,  in  such  a  low,  hoarse 
voice,  that  Olivia  scarcely  heard  more  than  half.  But  what 
she  did  hear  touched,  melted  her,  made  her  heart  open  with  a 
yearning  tenderness  she  had  never  felt  before,  even  for  her  be- 
loved father  in  his  troubles.  She  let  Mr.  Brander  hold  her 
hands  in  the  grip  of  a  moment's  passionate  happiness,  and 
only  sighed  out  a  faint  protest  against  his  fervent  words.  It 
was  he  who  first  woke  from  the  entrancing  pleasure  of  that 
moment's  mutual  sympathy.  Letting  the  girl's  hand  drop, 
he  stepped  back  as  abruptly  as  if  they  had  been  interrupted, 
leaving  her  confused  and  ashamed  at  her  involuntary  show  of 
feeling. 

Through  long  years  of  self-control  on  his  side,  through  pride 
on  hers,  they  both  recovered  their  outward  composure  so 
quickly  that  a  very  keen  observer,  who  happened  to  pass  a 
moment  later,  could  detect  no  sign  of  unusual  emotion  in 
either  of  them.  This  passer-by  was  Ned  Mitchell,  who  touched 
his  hat  to  Miss  Denison  with  a  significant  air  of  being  deter- 
mined to  remark  nothing,  and  nodded  to  the  clergyman  with 
a  side  glance  of  no  great  favor.  As  she  caught  sight  of  him, 
Olivia  drew  a  deep  breath  and  shivered,  as  if  some  forgotten 
horror  had  become  suddenly  vivid.  Instead  of  allowing  Mr. 
Brander  to  take  a  formal  farewell  of  her,  as  he  was  about  to 
do,  she  detained  him  by  a  gesture  until  the  colonist  was  out  of 
hearing,  and  then  made  an  impulsive  step  nearer  to  him,  with 
a  face  full  of  deep  anxiety  and  excitement. 

"  I  had  forgotten — quite  forgotten,"  she  panted  out.  "  That 
man — do  you  know  who  he  is?" 

"No." 


146  ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER. 

"  Do  you  know  why  he  is  here?" 

"  No-o.     But  1  have  sometimes  made  ugly  guesses." 

"  They  were  right;  they  were  true.  He  is  the  brother  of 
Nellie  Mitchell." 

She  communicated  this  intelligence  in  the  lowest  of  whispers, 
and  he  received  it  without  a  perceptible  movement.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  do  next— whether  she  should  attempt  to 
comfort  and  reassure  him,  or  whether  she  should  quietly  slip 
away  while  he  was  apparently  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts 
and  unconscious  of  her  presence.  She  decided  on  a  middle 
course. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Brander,"  she  said,  in  a  gentle  and  timid 
voice.  He  started,  and  as  he  turned  toward  her,  she  noted 
narrowly  the  expression  of  his  face.  Whether  the  waning  day- 
light had  now  grown  too  faint  for  her  to  see  properly,  she 
could  not  be  sureiimt  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  more  re- 
lief than  alarm  uTiiis  eyes,  which  were  glowing  with  keen  ex- 
citement. 

"  When  did  you  find  this  out?"  he  asked,  very  quietly. 

"  This  afternoon,  on  my  way  to  Saint  Cuthbert  s,"  she  an- 
swered, promptly. 

"  On  your  way  to  Saint  Cuthbert's,"  he  echoed,  very  softly. 
Olivia  blushed  and  bit  her  lip,  but  she  answered,  readily 
enough,  holding  up  her  head  with  some  dignity : 

*'  You  have  been  insulted  by  my  people.  I  came  to  apolo- 
gize for  them.  That  was  only  natural,  as  you  were  my  friend. " 

Mr.  Brander  smiled.  He  seemed  already  to  have  quite  re- 
covered from  any  shock  her  alarming  information  might  have 
been  supposed  to  cause  him. 

"  That  was  generous  of  you — and  like  you,"  he  said.  "  But 
it  was  very  unwise.  Do  you  want  to  set  all  the  old  women's 
tongues  wagging?" 

"  I  don't  care,"  murmured  Olivia,  defiantly,  though  she 
cast  down  her  eyes;  "  besides,  I  didn't  stop  to  think." 

"But  you  ought  to  stop  to  think.  You  haven't  always 
some  one  at  your  elbow  to  do  it  for  you,  as  I  verily  believe  a 
woman  ought  to  have. " 

He  had  fallen  into  the  tone  of  playful  reproach  which  was 
natural  to  him  when  he  was  moved  to  tenderness. 

"  But  I  was  in  the  right,"  said  Olivia. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  However,  we  will  leave  that 
unsettled.  How  came  this  man  to  speak  to  you?" 

"  He  saw  that  I  wanted  to  get  into  the  church-yard,  and  so 
did  he." 

"  And  he  told  you  he  was  Nellie  Mitchell's  brother?" 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  147 

"  Yes/'  answered  Olivia,  who  felt  the  hot  blood  burning  in 
her  face  as  he  mentioned  the  dead  girl's  name. 

Both  were  silent  for  some  moments,  during  which  Mr.  Bran- 
der  regarded  the  girl  intently,  trying  to  fathom  the  thoughts 
in  her  mind. 

"  And  you  thought  it  would  interest  me  to  know  this?"  he 
asked,  very  gently. 

"  I — I  was  afraid  so,"  she  burst  out,  and  impulsively  hid 
her  face  for  a  moment  in  her  hands. 

She  heard  his  breath  come  fast;  she  seemed  to  feel  that  his 
hands  were  near  her,  hovering  over  her,  almost  touching  her; 
and  she  remained  motionless.  But  when  she  looked  up  he  was 
some  paces  away,  busily  employed  digging  holes  in  the  ground 
with  the  point  of  his  umbrella.  As  she  looked  up,  their  eyes 
met. 

"  Yes.  You  were  right.  It  does  interest  me/'  he  said, 
gravely.  Olivia's  face  fell.  At  sight  of  this  change  in  her 
expression,  Mr.  Brander's  composure  suddenly  gave  way  again, 
broke  up  altogether.  He  showed  himself  suddenly  in  an  en- 
tirely new  light,  swayed  by  excitement  so  tempestuous  that 
the  girl  realized  for  the  first  time  the  depths  of  passion  which 
still  remained  in  this  man  under  the  burned-out  *ust.  In  a 
moment  she  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was  capable  of  im- 
pulses and  of  acts  which  she  could  neither  measure  nor  under- 
stand. For  good  or  for  evil,  his  was  a  nature  deeper  and 
stronger  than  hers.  This  knowledge,  so  suddenly  borne  in 
upon  her,  gave  her  a  new  interest  in,  and  respect  for,  him, 
even  while  it  made  her  reluctantly  admit  that  the  possibility 
of  his  having  committed  a  great  crime  was  far  clearer  to  her 
than  before.  All  this  flashed  into  her  mind  in  a  second  of 
time,  as  his  agitated  face  turned  toward  her  just  before  the 
feelings  which  surged  within  him  broke  on  his  lips  in  hoarse, 
incoherent  speech. 

"  I  must  tell  you — oh,  God!  Why  should  I  not  tell  you? 
Who  in  the  whole  world  deserves  to  hear  the  truth  as  you  do? 
Listen." 

No  need  to  tell  the  girl  that.  Her  heart  was  in  her  eyes. 
She  held  her  very  breath  in  the  intensity  of  a  rush  of  feelings, 
which  made  her  wet  and  cold  from  head  to  foot  as  she  stood, 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  waiting  for  the  fatal  explanation.  He 
had  come  a  step  nearer  to  her,  the  first  words  of  his  confession 
were  on  his  lips,  when  a  bright,  high,  woman's  voice  broke 
upon  their  ears.  The  sound  acted  on  Vernon  Brander  like  a 
stroke  of  paralysis.  His  right  hand,  raised  in  eager  gesture, 
fell  to  his  side;  into  his  excited  face  came  suddenly  the  vacant 


148  ST.   CTJTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

stare  of  idiocy.  As  for  Olivia,  the  tension  on  her  weaker 
feminine  nerves  had  been  too  great. 

She  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  burst  into  tears.  Then,  before 
he  could  recover  himself  sufficiently  to  offer  one  word  of  com- 
fort or  apology,  she  muttered  a  hasty  "  good-night,"  and  hur- 
ried through  the  farm-yard  gate  toward  her  home. 

Vernon  could  only  watch  her  retreating  figure  a  little  way, 
as  an  angle  of  the  big  barn  that  stood  opposite  the  farm-house 
soon  hid  her  from  sight.  Then  he  went  on  with  slow,  dogged 
footsteps  to  meet  his  sister-in-law;  for  it  was  her  voice  which 
had  disturbed  his  tete-a-tete  with  Miss  Denison.  The  sus- 
picions of  the  latter  had  already  borne  some  fruit  in  his  mind; 
for  he  asked  himself  whether  Mrs.  Brander  had  not  come  out 
on  purpose  to  interrupt  them.  What  other  motive  could  bring 
that  comfort-loving  lady  out  into  the  damp  and  cold  of  a  wet 
March  evening?  He  dismissed  the  idea  from  his  mind  almost 
as  soon  as  it  entered;  nevertheless,  it  was  a  just  one. 

Mrs.  Brander  had  called  on  Mrs.  Denison  that  afternoon, 
and  had  learned,  through  the  indiscretion  of  the  latter's  hus- 
band, enough  of  the  morning's  proceedings  to  fill  her  with 
anxiety  and  annoyance.  The  vicar  managed  to  restrain  her 
first  impulse,  which  was  to  go  straight  to  St.  Cuthbert's  and 
see  Vernon. 

"  You  will  be  putting  yourself  in  the  wrong  if  you  do  that, 
my  dear,"  said  Meredith,  quietly.  "If  he  thinks  he  has  any 
cause  of  complaint  against  you,  he  is  not  the  man  to  nurse  it 
up  silently.  He  is  sure  to  come  straight  here  on  the  first  op- 
portunity to  *  have  it  out '  with  you.  And  then  I  have  no 
doubt  of  your  powers  of  making  the  rough  places  smooth 
again. " 

Evelyn  Brander  submitted  to  her  husband's  judgment,  with 
a  doubt  which  he  made  light  of.  A  few  months  ago  she  could 
have  made  her  brother-in-law  take  her  own  view  of  any  mat- 
ter; now  there  was  an  unpleasant  possibility  that  he  might  take 
somebody  else's. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  therefore,  and  Vernon  did  not 
appear,  she  went  the  length  of  watching  for  him  at  one  of  the 
drawing-room  windows  which  commanded  the  best  view  of  the 
road;  and  when  the  tenant  of  the  adjoining  cottage  returned 
home,  she  threw  up  the  sash  and  asked  him  if,  in  the  course 
of  his  rambles  round  the  parish  which  he  was  known  to  be  in 
the  habit  of  taking,  he  had  that  day  met  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's. The  colonist,  being  an  observant  man,  noted  the  lady's 
anxiety,  and  the  unusual  courtesy  toward  himself  to  which  it 
gave  rise. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB.  149 

"  Your  brother-in-law,  madame,"  said  he,  bluntly,  "  is 
standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  He  has  been  standing 
there  some  time,  I  believe."  Then  the  idea  of  a  little  experi- 
ment crossing  his  mind,  Ned  Mitchell  made  a  pause  to  give  the 
more  effect  to  his  next  words.  "He  is  with  Miss  Denison,  of 
the  farm  down  yonder." 

Mrs.  Brander's  handsome  eyes  flashed;  with  what  feeling, 
whether  jealousy,  or  anger,  or  disquietude,  he  could  not  be 
sure.  She  bestowed  upon  him  a  little  polite  smile  of  thanks 
for  his  information,  and  said  it  was  an  unpleasant  evening. 
But  it  was  evident  that  her  interest  in  him  was  gone;  and  as 
he  had  nothing  more  at  present  to  obtain  from  or  to  impart 
to  her,  the  colonist  gave  the  off-hand  touch  to  his  hat  which 
was  the  most  respectful  form  of  salutation  he  ever  bestowed, 
and  retreated  into  his  cottage.  Mrs.  Brander  shut  down  the  win- 
dow with  one  vigorous  pull,  and  in  two  minutes  was  sallying 
down  the  hill  through  the  mud  and  the  drizzle,  her  handsome 
dinner-dress  held  at  a  height  more  convenient  than  graceful, 
her  kid  shoes  incased  in  stout  galoches,  an  old  mackintosh  of 
her  husband's  buttoned  round  her  with  the  sleeves  left  swing- 
ing and  a  huge  carriage  umbrella  held  over  her  head.  She 
was  a  practical  woman,  and  if  one  liked  to  wear  handsome 
clothes,  there  was  no  reason  why  one  should  spoil  them  for  the 
sake  of  a  more  picturesque  appearance  for  ten  minutes  on  a 
wet  evening.  As  she  passed  the  end  of  her  neighbor's  garden, 
that  gentleman,  who  was  on  the  watch  underneath  his  porch, 
addressed  to  her  an  admiring  word. 

"  Well  done,  ma'am!"  cried  he.  "  As  long  as  you  parsons' 
ladies  do  your  husbands'  district  visiting  in  such  weather  as 
this,  you'll  stave  off  disestablishment,  I  reckon. " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  called  out,  in  answer,  being  in  one  of  those 
anxious  moods  in  which  the  proudest  woman  is  afraid  of  giving 
offense  to  a  fellow-mortal;  "  you  don't  know  yet  what  weak 
woman  is  capable  of." 

These  were  the  words  she  was  uttering  when  the  faint  sound 
of  her  voice  startled  Vernon  and  Olivia  as  they  stood  together 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

When  Miss  Denison  left  him,  Vernon  had  only  a  few  steps 
to  take  before  he  met  his  sister-in-law,  who  greeted  him  with 
the  kindly  affectionate  manner  of  a  relation  with  whom  one  is 
on  perfectly  good  terms.  She  gave  her  umbrella  to  him  to 
hold,  and  passed  the  disengaged  hand  lightly  through  his  arm. 
Instead  of  proceeding  up  the  hill  with  her,  however,  he  stood 
still,  remaining  as  stiff  as  a  wooden  soldier. 


150  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  up  to  the  house?"  she  asked,  with  in- 
nocent peremptoriness,  shaking  his  arm  persuasively. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  he,  coolly,  but  with  a  coolness  utter- 
ly different  from  hers,  as  it  arose  from  the  chilling  of  a  warm 
nature,  not  from  the  innate  frigidity  of  a  cold  one. 

"Oh,  but  you  must!  I  was  peeping  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  window  when  the  bear  next  door  came  back  to  his  den 
and  told  me  you  were  out  here,  talking  to  Miss  Denison.  So 
I  rushed  out  hoping  to  catch  you  both,  and  drag  you  in  to 
dinner;  the  pretty  farmer's  daughter  to  amuse  Meredith,  and 
you  to  entertain  me." 

With  the  audacious  coquetry  of  a  cold  woman,  she  pressed 
his  arm  with  her  hand,  and  bending  forward  looked  into  his 
face  with  her  great  gazelle-like  eyes,  which,  by  a  turn  of  her 
head,  she  could  make  divinely  alluring  while  ordering  the  de- 
tails of  a  custard  pudding.  But  Vernon  was  not  to  be  allured. 
He  withdrew  his  arm  boldly  under  the  pretense  that  it  re- 
quired two  hands  to  hold  the  heavy  umbrella  at  the  proper 
angle. 

"  Miss  Denison  has  gone  home/'  said  he.  "  And  I'm  go- 
ing home;  thank  you." 

"  What,  without  an  umbrella?  Come  as  far  as  the  house, 
and  I'll  give  you  one.  It's  sure  to  rain  before  you  can  get 
back. " 

"  Miss  Denison  has  got  mine.  I  can  go  to  the  farm  to 
fetch  it." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  won't  mind  seeing  me  as  far  as  the  door 
first.  I  can't  hold  that  great  thing  and  keep  my  dress  up  too. 
I  won't  insist  on  your  coming  in;  that  will  do  some  other  time. 
I  had  something  to  say — to  ask  you  about  my  Katie;  but  never 
mind  now.  I  see  you  are  thinking  of  something  else. " 

"  Katie!"  exclaimed  Vernon.     "  What  about  Katie?" 

"  Oh,  she  doesn't  seem  very  well  to-day,  and  I  thought  per- 
haps— " 

'  You  thought  what?    Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 
'''  There  might  have  been.     But  I  can't  ask  favors  of  you  in 
such  a  mood  as  you  are  in  to-night.     We  are  losing  you  day 
by  day.     You  will  soon  have  no  place  in  your  heart  even  for 
Katie." 

"  I  think  you  misjudge  me,  Evelyn.  A  child  may  forget 
her  friends  when  they  are  absent.  But  at  least  she  does  not 
speak  ill  of  them." 

Mrs.  Brander  stopped  short  in  the  mud,  and  looked  at  him 
with  proud  indignation. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  151 

"  Of  course  I  see  you  are  insinuating  that  I  have  done  so. 
Your  new  friends  have  been  turning  you  against  the  old!" 

"  No.  It  seems,  though  I  can  scarcely  believe  it,  that  my 
old  friends  have  been  turning  my  new  ones  against  me.  Now, 
Evelyn,  you  are  honest,  aren't  you?  Did  you,  or  did  you 
not,  warn  Mrs.  Denison  against  me,  as  not  being  a  proper 
friend  for  a  young  girl?" 

Now,  Veruon  Brander  only  did  his  sister-in-law  justice  when 
he  called  her  honest.  Her  blunt  frankness,  which  made  little 
account  of  other  people's  feelings,  had  often  been  counted 
against  her  as  a  fault.  Moreover,  it  was  one  result  of  her  hus- 
band's profession  that,  though  not  by  nature  overscruplous, 
lying  should  now  seem  a  great  sin  to  her.  But  the  issues  at 
stake  seemed  to  her  so  great  that  it  cost  her  only  a  moment's 
hesitation  to  reply: 

"  I  did  not.  I  told  her  1  understood  you  did  not  think  of 
marrying.  Was  I  wrong?" 

"  No,"  answered  Vernon,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

Evelyn's  great  eyes  were  meeting  his  with  the  simple,  direct 
stare  habitual  to  her,  which  seemed  to  preclude  the  idea  that 
she  could  lie.  A  weaker,  a  more  sensitive,  or  a  more  modest 
nature  would  have  shrunk  from  the  gaze  of  his  burning,  plead- 
ing eyes.  But  her  character  was  not  built  on  complex  lines; 
she  felt  that  she  was  doing  the  best  possible  thing  under  the 
circumstances  for  herself  and  for  everybody  else,  and  so,  her 
conscience  being,  as  usual,  free,  there  was  no  need  for  any  airs 
of  disquietude  or  remorse.  And  so  the  guileless  man  was 
caught  at  the  first  throw  of  the  line,  and  was  carried  off  to  the 
house  safe  and  subdued,  while  she  informed  him  that  Katie 
was  not  well,  and  that  if  he  and  his  old  housekeeper  were  will- 
ing to  take  charge  of  the  little  girl  at  St.  Cuthbert's  for  a 
fortnight,  she  thought  the  change  would  do  her  good. 

The  vicar's  wife  had  not  overrated  the  effect  of  this  pro- 
posal. To  have  his  darling  niece  in  his  own  care  for  two  whole 
weeks  was  a  bribe  which  would  have  tempted  him  to  condone 
any  wrong.  By  the  light  which  came  into  his  face  as  he 
quietly  said  he  should  be  glad  to  have  the  child,  Mrs.  Brander 
knew  that  her  trump  card  had  been  very  well  played,  and  that 
she  had  an  influence  ready  to  her  hand  which  might  be  reck- 
oned upon  to  counteract  the  dangerous  one  of  Olivia  Denison 's 
youth  and  beauty. 

The  tenant  of  the  cottage  watched  the  pair  curiously  as  they 
passed  his  garden  on  the  way  up  to  the  vicarage.  Nothing  in 
the  demeanor  of  either  escaped  his  penetrating  eyes.  Absorbed 
as  he  was  in  one  object,  every  smallest  incident  which  occurred 


152  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

in  his  neighborhood  was  regarded  by  him  as  having  a  possible 
bearing  upon  it. 

"  I  wonder/'  he  said  to  himself,  as  they  turned  the  corner 
into  the  private  road  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  "  what  is  the  rea- 
son of  the  interest  that  parson's  wife  takes  in  her  husband's 
brother?  Pretty  strong  it  must  be  to  bring  my  lady  out  into 
the  puddles  in  those  finicking  togs  of  hers!  Love,  passion, 
anything  of  that  sort?  She  ain't  built  that  way;  and  if  she 
had  liked  him  best,  she  would  either  have  married  him  or  she'd 
have  given  'em  something  to  talk  about  by  this  time.  I  should 
like  to  think  there  was  a  woman  in  the  secret — my  secret;  it 
would  make  my  work  seventy-five  per  cent,  easier. " 

In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  Brander  and  Vernon  had  reached 
the  house,  and  had  been  met  at  the  door  by  the  vicar,  who 
seemed  placidly  amused  by  the  triumph  and  satisfaction  he  saw 
on  his  wife's  face,  and  by  the  subdued  and  even  hang-dog  ex- 
pression on  that  of  his  brother. 

Dinner  was  waiting;  and  the  vicar,  who  was  as  much  dis- 
turbed by  such  an  occurrence  as  he  ever  was  about  anything, 
hastened  to  lead  the  way  to  the  dining-room,  gently  murmuring 
disapproval  of  his  wife's  conduct  in  leaving  the  house  at  such 
a  critical  moment.  The  meal  passed  uncomfortably;  for  the 
unexplained  uneasiness  under  which  Vernon  was  evidently 
laboring  could  not  fail  to  effect,  in  some  degree,  even  his  rather 
stolid  brother.  When  they  all  adjourned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  the  constraint  of  his  manner  became  so  apparent  that 
Meredith,  used  to  an  atmosphere  of  calm  respect  for  himself 
and  content  with  things  in  general,  laid  his  hand  on  his  broth- 
er's shoulder  and  asked  him,  with  benevolent  peremptoriness, 
if  there  was  anything  the  matter. 

Vernon  who  was  standing  by  a  table,  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  a  magazine  with  unmistakable  lack  of  interest,  started 
violently,  and  caused  his  sister-in-law  to  look  up  from  the 
needle-work  with  which  her  handsome,  industrious  fingers  were 
nearly  always  employed.  Her  quick  eyes  discovered,  at  a, 
glance,  that  there  was  some  more  serious  reason  for  his  mel- 
ancholy than  she  had  supposed.  She  rose,  and  with  a  thrill  of 
vague  anxiety  laid  aside  her  work  and  crossed  the  room  toward 
the  two  brothers.  Vernon's  eyes  met  hers,  and  the  expression 
she  saw  in  them  caused  her  to  stop  abruptly. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  Do  speak  out,  Vernon.  We  are  not 
fools.  We  are  ready  to  hear  anything,"  she  said,  in  impatient, 
almost  querulous  tones. 

Her  brother-in-law  cleared  his  throat,  looking  from  the  one 
to  the  other  with  a  strange  yearning  in  his  eyes. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  153 

"  I  will  speak;  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  1  have 
learned  to-day  something  which  may  cause  you  some  alarm — 
for  me,"  he  added,  hastily,  as  husband  and  wife  looked  anx- 
iously each  at  the  other.  "  1  don't  know  whether  you  have 
ever  troubled  yourselves  about  the  man  who  has  come  to  live 
next  door,  or  made  any  inquiries  about  him. " 

"  Well,  who  is  he?  What  is  his  name?"  asked  Evelyn, 
while  her  husband  remained  silently  watching  his  brother. 

"  He  is  Ned  Mitchell,  the  brother  of—" 

He  stopped.  There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room.  Not  one 
of  the  three  seemed  to  dare  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  other. 
Evelyn  was  the  first  to  speak.  Her  voice  was  low  and  husky, 
quite  unlike  her  usual  bright,  imperious  tones. 

"  You  are  sure?"  she  said. 

"Quite  sure." 

Another  silence. 

Then  the  vicar  spoke.  His  voice  was  not  affected  by  the 
alarming  announcement,  except  that  it  was,  perhaps,  unusu- 
ally gentle  and  kind.  He  laid  a  sympathetic  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  brother,  who  still  remained,  with  head  bowed 
down,  unable  to  meet  their  eyes. 

"  And,  of  course,  you  think  he  is  here  about  that  unfortu- 
nate business  of  ten  years  ago?" 

Evelyn  shuddered,  and  glanced  first  at  her  husband  and  then 
at  the  broken-down  man  on  the  other  side  of  her.  Her  lips 
moved,  imploring  Meredith  to  be  kind,  to  be  careful.  Vernon 
raised  his  head,  looking  still  at  the  carpet. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  in  a  husky  voice.  "  Not  that 
we  need  trouble  ourselves.  What  can  he  really  do?  Nothing. 
I — I  am  as  safe  as  ever." 

The  vicar  withdrew  his  hand.  Calm  as  he  had  remained, 
he  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  at  this  assurance. 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,"  he  said,  solemnly;  "  for  all  our  sakes." 

Vernon  rose,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  his  brother  for  the 
first  time.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  only  a  dry,  choking  sound 
came  from  his  parched  mouth.  He  seized  the  hand  his  brother 
held  out  to  him,  and  wrung  it  till  the  clasp  of  his  thin,  nerv- 
ous fingers  left  livid  marks  on  the  soft  pink  flesh. 

"  God  bless  you,"  murmured  the  vicar,  in  his  warmest  tones 
of  encouragement  and  sympathy. 

Again  Vernon  tried  to  speak;  again  he  failed.  With  a 
hasty  side  glance  at  his  sister-in-law,  full  of  a  plaintive,  dumb 
sort  of  gratitude  and  entreaty,  he  crossed  the  room  rapidly, 
with  almost  a  staggering  gait,  opened  the  door  with  clammy 
fingers,  and  hurried  out. 


154  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Husband  and  wife,  thus  left  face  to  face,  said  not  a  word, 
but  each  gave  a  strange  look  of  searching  inquiry  into  the  face 
of  the  other. 

"  Poor  fellow!"  said  the  vicar,  gently. 

Mrs.  Brander  did  not  answer.  With  a  woman's  keener  sym- 
pathy, she  was  listening  to  her  brother-in-law's  footsteps  in 
the  hall  outside.  All  there  was  of  warmth  in  her  somewhat 
cool  nature  was  brought  to  the  surface  to-night.  As  she  heard 
the  hall-door  open,  she  uttered  a  little  cry,  and,  leaving  the 
room  quickly,  came  up  with  Vernon  before  he  had  got  out  of 
the  house,  and  put  a  warm,  loving  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Vernon,  Vernon!  1  wanted  to  say  God  bless  you, 
too!"  she  whispered,  with  tenderness  most  unwonted  in  the 
self-contained  woman. 

Vernon  looked  in  her  face  with  astonishment.  There  were 
tears  in  her  great  brown  eyes;  tears  which,  if  he  had  seen  them 
a  few  months  ago,  would  have  set  his  blood  and  his  brain  on 
fire.  Now  the  sight  of  them  filled  him  with  astonishment  and 
gratitude,  but  left  him  calm. 

"  You  are  too  kind,  dear/'  he  said,  pressing  her  hand  affec- 
tionately in  his.  "  You  must  not  trouble  your  head  so  much 
about  me.  Indeed  there  is  no  need.  Good-night,  good- 
night!" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand  very  gently,  very  reverent- 
ly, and  left  her,  hurrying  down  the  lane  without  a  look  behind. 

Evelyn  Brander  stared  out  into  the  darkness  for  some  min- 
utes after  he  had  disappeared  from  her  sight.  For  the  first 
time,  perhaps,  in  all  her  life  she  felt  a  vague  sense  that  there 
might  be  something  in  existence  more  serious,  more  interest- 
ing than  what  we  should  eat,  and  what  we  should  drink,  and 
wherewithal  we  should  be  clothed. 

"  If  I  had  only  known,"  she  murmured  to  herself;  "  if  I 
had  only  been  able  to  know!" 

Then  she  looked  curiously  at  the  hand  Vernon  had  kissed, 
seeming  surprised  to  find  no  change  in  its  appearance.  The 
next  moment,  raising  her  head  to  its  usual  proud  angle,  with 
a  little  laugh  at  her  own  folly,  she  shut  herself  into  the  house. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  once  the  secret  concerning  the  identity  of  the  stranger 
at  the  cottage  had  been  let  out,  it  spread  mysteriously  through- 
out the  length  of  the  straggling  village  with  astonishing 
rapidity.  Ned  Mitchell  had  come  back;  and,  remembering 
the  character  for  pig  headed  obstinacy  he  had  borne  at  home 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  155 

when  he  was  a  boy,  it  was  safe  to  prophesy  that  there  would 
shortly  be  a  "  shindy  "  somewhere.  Two  or  three  old  people 
now  declared  that  they  had  recognized  him  from  the  first, 
though  they  had  been  too  discreet  to  make  known  the  fact; 
and  toward  the  close  of  the  day  following  that  on  which  he  had 
revealed  his  name  to  Miss  Denison,  it  became  plain  to  him, 
from  the  whispers  of  young  girls  and  the  courtesies  of  old  wom- 
en, that  he  was  the  hero  of  the  hour. 

In  the  evening  he  had  the  honor  of  a  call  from  the  chief  of 
tht  village  busybodies,  a  superannuated  postman,  who  clung 
to  his  old  trade  of  news-carrier  to  the  community.  As  Ned 
Mitchell  lived  by  himself,  and  locked  up  his  house  when  he 
was  out,  the  visitor  had  to  sit  on  a  broken  horse-trough  which 
stood  on  the  green  under  the  trees  opposite  to  the  cottage  until 
the  colonist  returned  from  one  of  his  long  daily  rambles. 

"  Good-evening,  squire/7  said  the  old  postman,  rising  with 
fussy  respect,  and  hobbling  quickly  to  the  gate  lest  his  unwill- 
ing host  should  shut  him  out  before  he  could  reach  it. 

Mitchell  glanced  toward  him,  and  jerked  at  him  an  indiffer- 
ent nod.  The  old  man  was  not  to  be  rebuffed.  He  had  that 
quality  of  dogged  and  patient  energy  which  we  can  most  of  us 
show  in  other  people's  business. 

"  Pardon,  squire,"  he  said,  with  a  beggar's  humility. 
"  Don't  be  affronted  with  me  for  wishing  to  be  one  o'  t' 
first  to  pay  my  respects  to  ye." 

"Bespects!"  echoed  Mitchell,  shortly,  thrusting  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  with  an  instinctive  perception  that  these  con- 
tained his  most  respect-worthy  attribute. 

"  Ay,  squire.  I'm  proud  to  be  one  o'  t'  first  to  welcome  ye 
back  to  yer  owd  home. " 

"  Old  home!  What,  do  you  call  this  wretched  little  heap 
of  moldy  bricks  and  worm-eaten  boards  a  home  for  me?" 
asked  the  colonist,  contemptuously. 

"  Noa,  squire;  leastways  it  didn't  ought  to  be.  But  as  them 
as  have  no  right  to  't  have  got  t'  Hall  Farm  instead  o'  them 
that  was  born  and  bred  there,  it's  summat  to  welcome  ye  back 
to  t'  village  that's  proud  to  have  you  belonging  to  it." 

"  Proud!  Why  proud?"  asked  Mitchell,  bluntly.  "  If  the 
village  has  got  to  be  proud  of  me,  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it, 
I  should  think.  And  who  can  have  a  greater  right  to  the  farm 
than  the  man  who's  paying  the  rent  of  it?" 

The  old  postman  was  not  abashed.  Each  snub  administered 
to  him  did  but  increase,  in  his  eyes,  the  importance  of  the  ad- 
ministrator. He  felt,  too,  that  the  opportunity  he  gave  the 


156  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB. 

colonist  of  sharpening  his  wit  upon  him  was  inclining  that 
gentleman  to  look  upon  him  with  favor. 

"  Very  true,  squire.  You  that  travel  get  a  different  way  o' 
looking  at  things  from  what  us  stay-at-home  folk  do.  All  t' 
same,  squire,  I  hope  as  I  may  be  allowed  to  give  you  a  bit  of  a 
hiiit  that  may,  or  may  not " — and  the  old  man  nodded  with 
mystery  and  importance — "  be  of  use  to  you  on  your  business 
here. " 

"  My  business  here!  And  what's  that?"  asked  Mitchell, 
abruptly. 

' '  Well,  they  do  say  as  how  it  were  on  account  of  summat 
as  happened  ten  years  ago  that  were  never  cleared  up. " 

"<5h?" 

"  And  if  so  be  as  that's  true,  which  1  don't  say — neither  do 
I  say  otherwise,  as  it  aren't  true,  why  then,  what  I  say  is," 
went  on  the  old  man,  whose  style  grew  more  involved  the 
nearer  he  came  to  the  point,  "  that  Martha  Lowndes,  as  were 
her  foster-sister,  and  them  two  always  as  thick  as  thieves, 
which  that  is  a  party  as  knows  more'n  she  tells." 

Ned  Mitchell,  who  had  been  taking  nuts  from  his  pocket, 
opening  them  with  a  peiiknife,  and  devouring  them  ravenous- 
ly, shut  up  his  knife  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  garden  gate  with- 
out the  smallest  sign  of  interest  in  the  information  he  had  re- 
ceived. 

"  Is  that  all?"  he  asked,  feeling  his  pockets  to  make  sure 
that  not  one  nut  still  lurked  in  the  corners. 

"Well — "  began  the  gossip,  rather  disconcerted,  but  ready 
to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  business. 

**  Ah,  it  is  all,  I  see,"  interrupted  Mitchell. 

And  with  a  nod  of  stolid  indifference,  he  turned  and  strolled 
up  the  cottage  path. 

But  Ned  Mitchell,  though  he  had  no  notion  of  being  grate- 
ful for  the  old  man's  information,  was  not  long  in  making  use 
of  it.  No  sooner  had  the  April  evening  closed  in  than  he, 
having  already  found  out  Martha  Lowndes's  dwelling,  knocked 
at  the  door  of  a  small,  tumble-down  cottage,  where  he  was 
admitted  at  once  by  a  woman  who  looked  about  fifty,  and 
whose  face  was  care-worn  and  deeply  furrowed. 

"  Martha  Lowndes?"  said  Ned. 
'  Yes,"  answered  the  woman,  looking  at  him  curiously. 

"  I  thought  you  were  younger." 

"I'm  thirty-five,"  said  the  woman,  shortly.  "You're 
Ned  Mitchell,  I  suppose.  I'd  forgotten  you;  but  they  told 
me  you  were  about;  sc  I  suppose  it's  you." 

"  Right  you  are." 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEE.  157 

"  Come  in,  then/' 

He  at  once  accepted  the  not  very  gracious  invitation,  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  wooden  chairs,  which  she  dusted  for  him. 

"  And  so  you're  come  at  last.    You  didn't  hurry  yourself." 

"  No,  I  didn't  hurry  myself,  but  I  meant  to  come. " 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  was  odd  if  you  didn't,  and  her  your 
favorite,  as  she  always  was." 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  But  that  was  in  the  old  days,  when  I 
was  sentimental.  If  it  had  happened  when  I  first  went  away, 
with  nothing  but  the  shirt  on  my  back  and  my  mother's  Bible, 
I  should  have  worked  my  passage  home  by  the  next  boat,  and 
run  amuck  among  these  fine  gentlemen  till  I  got  the  right  one 
by  the  throat.  But  when  it  did  happen,  I'd  got  sheep  farms 
of  my  own,  and  a  wife  and  family,  and  was  making  my  pile. 
So  I  let  justice  wait  till  my  liver  wanted  a  change.  But  it'll 
be  justice  none  the  less  for  that." 

The  woman  stood  with  her  arms  akimbo,  regarding  him 
solemnly.  Indeed,  all  capacity  for  gayety  or  even  cheerful- 
ness seemed  to  be  dead  in  her. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  presently,  "  and  what  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"  You  can  tell  me  something,  or  else  I've  been  made  a  fool 
of." 

"  Yes,  that's  right  enough.  I  can  tell  you  something.  It's 
been  on  my  mind  this  ten  year,  and  it's  what  has  made  an  old 
woman  of  me  before  my  time.  You  remember  me,  '  flirting 
Mattie  '  they  called  me  then,  and  I  don't  say  but  what  I  was 
as  good  as  my  name.  There  were  a  pair  of  us,  they  said;  and 
we  were  together  a  good  deal.  *  Birds  of  a  feather,'  you  know. 
But  Nell  was  always  closer  than  me;  if  I  fancied  anybody,  all 
the  world  might  know  it.  But  she — she'd  carry  on  with  half 
a  dozen,  and  you  might  never  know  which  was  the  one  she'd 
a  liking  for,  or  if  it  was  in  her  to  care  for  anybody.  It  wasn  't 
for  a  long  time  I  myself  guessed  there  was  something  up — not 
till  she  grew  mopish  and  fidgety  like,  and  set  me  wondering. 
For  awhile  she'd  own  to  nothing,  and  it  wasn't  till  one  day  I 
took  her  unawares  like  that  I  found  out  how  serious  it  was 
with  her." 

"  Serious?" 

"  Yes.  As  serious  as  it  could  be.  I  taxed  her  with  it  quite 
sudden  one  day  as  she  was  sitting  there  on  that  same  chair  like 
as  it  might  be  you.  And  she  turned  quite  white  and  confessed, 
and  said  as  how  it  wasn't  that  as  troubled  her  most,  but  that 
he'd  got  tired  of  her,  and  wanted  to  get  shut  of  her,  and  was 
crazy  at  the  thought  of  the  exposure  and  disgrace.  '  Why, 


158  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

it's  you  that's  got  the  worst  of  that  to  bear;  not  him!'  cried 
I.  And  all  on  a  sudden  she  gets  quite  quiet,  and  as  it  might 
be  bites  her  lips  together,  so  as  no  words  she  didn't  want  to 
use  mightn't  force  themselves  through.  '  Why  don't  you 
speak  to  your  brother?'  said  I;  '  he'd  get  the  fellow  to  do 
the  right  thing  by  you. '  But  she  only  shook  her  head,  and 
got  up,  and  began  to  walk  about,  and  just  said  in  a  low  voice 
that  I  didn't  understand.  And  I  began  to  guess  it  was  a  gen- 
tleman. " 

'  You  taxed  her  with  that?" 

"  Yes.  She  took  it  all  in  the  same  sullen  way,  and  would 
name  no  names.  But  she  said  he  loved  another  woman,  and 
she'd  have  forgiven  him  anything  but  that." 

"  But  you  should  have  got  her  to  say  who  he  was,  woman!" 

"  Do  you  think,  if  wild  horses  could  have  dragged  it  from 
her,  I  shouldn't  have  known?  I  tell  you  I  never  knew  before 
what  was  in  the  girl;  how  obstinate  she  could  be,  nor  what 
strong  feelings  she  had.  It  was  something  quite  different 
to  what  I'd  ever  felt,  and  I  wasn't  the  same  with  her  as 
I'd  been  before.  When  she  passed  through  this  door  that 
evening,  it  seemed  as  if  a  fierce,  revengeful  woman  had  gone 
out  where  just  a  giddy  girl  like  myself  had  come  in." 

Ned  Mitchell  was  not  moved  by  this  recital  to  any  show  of 
deep  emotion,  but  the  woman  could  see  that  he  was  touched, 
and  she  went  on  in  a  voice  less  studiously  cold: 

"  1  didn't  see  her  again  for  some  days — not  for  near  a  fort- 
night, I  think.  But  when  I  did,  it  didn't  need  her  words  to 
point  out  the  change  in  her.  I  didn't  dare  ask  her  many  ques- 
tipns  that  time,  but  I'd  got  some  inkling  by  then  as  to  who 
those  might  be  that  was  bringing  her  to  this  pass.  I  thought 
I'd  try  to  get  at  the  truth  in  a  roundabout  way  if  I  could;  so 
I  began, '  I  didn't  see  you  at  church  on  Sunday  evening,  Nell. ' 
Her  face  grew  sullen  at  once.  You  see,  sir,  I'd  heard  of  a  cer- 
tain clergyman  that  was  often  at  the  Hall  Farm  of  an  even- 
ing." 

'  You  mean  Vernon  Brander,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes.  And  how  Nell  had  been  seen  late  o'  nights  down  by 
St  Cuthbert's." 

"  Well,  now,  I  think  his  coming  openly  to  the  farm  is  more 
in  his  favor  than  not." 

"  Unless  it  was  a  blind." 

"  Well?" 

"  Well,  I  dursn't  say  more  then,  but  presently,  as  she  sat  at 
tea  with  me,  1  caught  her  eating  some  green  gages  that  was  on 
the  table  in  an  oddly  ravenous  way,  stones  and  all.  '  What 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  159 

ever  are  you  doing,  Nell?'  says  I.  *  You'll  be  ill  for  sure  if 
you  swallow  those  stones  like  that. '  And  she  looks  at  me  with 
an  odd  smile.  *  I'm  practicing/  says  she.  '  I  may  have  to 
swallow  worse  than  that  some  day. '  I  stared  at  her,  thinking 
perhaps  her  trouble  had  touched  her  head,  poor  thing!  And 
then  I  got  quite  cold,  fancying  perhaps  she  had  it  in  her  mind 
to  make  away  with  herself.  And  I  says,  '  Nell,  if  ever  you 
feel  tempted  to  do  a  mischief  to  yourself,  think  of  them  that 
cares  for  you  truly — of  poor  Ned,  away  across  the  seas!' — yes, 
1  said  that,  Ned — '  and  of  me,  that's  always  cared  for  you  like 
as  if  you'd  been  one  of  my  own!'  Then  up  she  started  from 
her  chair,  and  began  to  roam. about  the  room  again,  restless 
like,  just  as  she'd  done  the  last  time.  '  Don't  be  afraid,  lass,' 
says  she  to  me,  in  a  voice  she  meant  to  be  rough.  *  I'm  not 
going  to  do  anything  foolish — not  more  foolish  than  I've  done 
already,  that  is.  While  there's  life  there's  hope,  they  say, 
though  perhaps  there's  not  much  of  either  left  for  me!' 
'  What  do  you  mean,  Nell?'  says  I,  frightened.  She  didn't 
answer  me  for  a  minute;  then  suddenly  she  turned,  with  her 
great  black  eyes  flashing,  and  said,  *  If  I'm  found  dead,  Mat- 
tie,  you'll  know  I  didn't  put  an  end  to  myself.  And  I  tell  you 
I'll  let  others  know  it  too,  if  my  body  lies  buried  fifty  years 
first. '  Oh,  Ned,  I  shall  never  forget  her  face.  It  was  white 
like  death,  and  the  lips  all  drawn  back  from  her  teeth.  'Twas 
as  if  all  life  and  the  wish  to  live  were  burning  out  of  her. 
*  Why,  Nell,  this  man,  whoever  he  is,  he  surely  never  threat- 
ened to  kill  you!'  '  Not  in  words,  no,'  says  she,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  in  front  of  her.  *  But  there  was  murder  in  his  eyes  the 
last  time  I  saw  him.  If  he's  past  caring  for  me,  he  may  kill 
me;  I  don't  care.  But  he  sha'n't  live  happy  with  the  love  of 
that  other  woman;  1  swear  it.  I've  been  true  to  him.  I've 
done  for  him  what  there's  hardly  a  girl  in  England  would  have 
done;  I've  held  my  tongue  when  just  to  speak  would  have 
ruined  him.  But  I'll  not  die,  and  be  put  out  of  the  way,  and 
him  go  unpunished!'  I  was  that  frightened,  Ned,  I  could 
scarcely  speak.  I  told  her  not  to  have  such  dreadful  thoughts, 
and  I  reminded  her  again  of  you,  and  how  fond  you  were  of 
her.  *  Yes,'  says  she,  with  a  queer  smile  that  made  me  feel 
cold,  '  Ned  would  see  me  righted  if  any  one  tried  to  wrong 
me.  And  whether  I'm  alive  or  dead  he  will. ' ' 

Ned  Mitchell  did  not  move.  His  face  was  set  like  a  rock, 
and,  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  deeply  attentive  to  every  de- 
tail, it  was  impossible  to  guess  what  effect  the  story  had  upon 
him.  He  nodded  to  the  woman  to  go  on. 

"  '  Alive  or  dead,  Nell!'  says  I,  when  I  could  speak  for 


160  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

trembling.  '  What  makes  you  harp  so  on  death,  if  you  mean 
rightly  by  yourself  and  them  that  love  you?  As  for  the  rascal 
that's  brought  you  to  this,  if  you  won't  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it  to  your  brother  Sam,  you'd  best  keep  out  of  the  creature's 
way,  seeing  you  think  so  ill  of  him  as  to  believe  him  ready  to 
do  you  a  mischief.  It's  no  good  of  courting  harm.  You've 
no  need  to  give  way.  If  Sam  was  to  turn  against  you  when 
it  all  comes  out,  you  could  go  away  to  Ned ;  he'd  receive  you 
fast  enough,  whatever  you'd  done,  I'll  warrant.  Keep  a  heart 
in  you,  my  girl. '  But  she  took  no  notice,  and  went  on  eating 
the  green  gages,  stones  and  all,  in  just  the  same  way,  till  1 
tried  to  take  the  dish  away.  Then  she  threw  back  her  head 
with  a  hard  laugh,  and,  says  she,  '  Look  here,  Mattie,  you 
may  as  well  leave  those  things  here.  I'm  not  cracked;  I've  a 
reason  for  what  I'm  doing.  I  shall  go  and  meet  him  again;  I 
tell  you  I'm  that  mad  about  him  I  can't  keep  away  when  he 
tells  me  to  come.  But  if  he  tries  any  tricks  with  me,  I've 
made  up  my  mind  that  I'll  find  a  chance  to  swallow  something 
of  his,  if  it's  but  a  shirt  stud  or  a  button,  so  as  my  body,  when 
it's  found,  shall  bear  witness  against  him  just  as  well  as  my 
tongue  could  if  1  was  alive.  Now  you  remember  that,  Mattie", 
if  things  come  to  the  worst. '  And  with  that  she  was  off  and 
out  of  the  house.  But  I  ran  after  her,  and  caught  up  with 
her,  and,  *  Nell,'  says  I,  '  when  are  you  going  to  see  this 
man?'  For  1  had  it  in  my  mind  to  stop  her.  And  she  gave 
me  a  queer  look  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  '  I'm  going  to 
meet  him  to-morrow  night/  says  she.  And  she  snatched  away 
her  arm  and  ran  off.  That  was  the  last  1  saw  of  her,  alive  or 
dead." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"  Then  you  might  have  saved  her,"  said  Ned  Mitchell,  at 
last,  in  a  rasping  voice. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Ned,"  pleaded  the  woman,  in  low  tones. 
"  Many  and  many's  the  time  I've  said  that  to  myself,  and  re- 
proached myself.  But,  remember,  she  said,  '  To  -  morrow 
night—' ' 

"  Well,  you  might  have  known  it  was  only  a  blind,  with  her 
heart  set  on  the  fellow  like  that.  1  should  have  known. 
However,  it's  no  use  wasting  words  over  it  now.  You  thought 
you  would  see  about  it  next  day,  and  when  next  day  came  it 
was  all  over  with  the  girl." 

'  You've  no  right  to  be  so  hard,  Ned;  you  that  were  con- 
tent to  let  the  man  who  murdered  your  sister  lie  peacefully  in 
his  bed  these  ten  years!" 

"  That's  different     If  I'd  come  over  next  day  I  couldn't 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER,  161 

nave  brought  her  back  to  life  again,"  said  he,  in  a  dogged 
tone.  But  the  man's  conscience  was  uneasy,  and  this  made 
him  the  more  harsh  toward  Martha.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell 
this  yarn  you've  been  pitching  me  to  somebody  that  would 
have  seen  into  things?" 

"  I  did  tell  it  to  Sam.  But  you  know  Sam,  how  timid  he 
was,  and  slow  at  things.  And  his  wife  never  could  abide  Nell, 
and  nothing  would  ever  persuade  her  the  girl  hadn't  gone  off 
with  somebody;  and,  indeed,  many  people  believe  that  now, 
and  say  Nell  Mitchell  was  always  a  light  sort,  and  it  was  just 
what  they'd  expected,  for  her  to  make  a  bolt  of  it  with  some- 
body. But  I  know  better. " 

"  How  about  the  parsons?  How  did  they  take  it?" 
"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  the  rights  of  a  little  story  that's  not 
generally  known.  Next  morning,  before  anybody  knew  Nell 
had  disappeared,  Parson  Vernon  was  at  Matherharu  Railway 
Station  in  time  for  the  first  train  to  London.  His  brother 
Meredith,  who'd  been  called  out  of  his  bed  in  the  small  hours 
to  see  a  dying  man,  came  up  with  him  while  he  was  standing 
on  the  platform.  My  cousin  Dick — you  remember  Dick,  the 
miller's  son — saw  the  meeting;  and  he  says  he  never  saw  such 
a  contrast  between  brothers  as  those  two  made;  the  one  com- 
ing up  all  fresh  and  smiling,  and  surprised;  the  other  pale  and 
ghastly,  with  blood-shot  eyes,  and  a  wild,  hunted  look  in  his 
face  already.  *  Why,  Vernie/  says  the  vicar,  '  what  are  you 
doing  here  at  this  time  in  the  morning?'  Dick  says  the  other 
looked  as  scared  as  if  the  hangman's  rope  was  about  his  neck. 
He  stammered  and  said  something  about  a  morning  paper;  for 
Dick  had  edged  near  enough  to  hear.  But  then  the  railway 
ticket  fell  from  his  fingers  on  to  the  ground,  and  Mr.  Meredith 
picked  it  up  sharp  as  a  needle.  Dick  saw  by  the  color  it  was 
a  third-class  ticket  to  London.  Then  the  brothers  looked  at 
each  other,  and  Mr.  Vernon  saw  it  wouldn't  do.  The  other 
took  his  arm  and  led  him  from  the  station,  and  I  suppose  Ver- 
non made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  told  him  how  bad  it  would 
look  for  him  to  run  away.  And  sure  enough,  when  the  in- 
quiry was  made,  the  best  point  in  Vernon's  favor  was  that  he 
had  done  nothing  to  escape  it.  Dick  kept  his  own  counsel,  ex- 
cept to  me  that  he  could  trust;  and  the  few  people  that  was 
about  just  then  had  no  wish  to  come  forward.  For  though 
Mr.  Vernon  was  looked  upon  as  a  bit  wild  for  a  parson,  he  was 
popular  too  in  a  way,  and  then  if  not  for  him  they'd  have  held 
their  tongues  for  the  vicar's  sake.  So  there  was  just  a  fuss 
and  a  scandal  and  an  inquiry,  and  Mr.  Vernon  was  had  up  on 
suspicion,  because  some  one  had  heard  cries  of  '  Murder!' 


162  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

near  Saint  Cuthbert's  that  night.  And  then  it  all  died  away, 
and  everything  was  the  same  as  before  except  Mr.  Vernon  and 
me;  the  shock  made  me  what  you  see;  and  as  for  Mr.  Vernon, 
he's  been  a  changed  man,  and  he's  that  loved  now  that  if  you 
was  to  have  him  up  again,  on  something  stronger  than  suspi- 
cion, it's  my  belief  the  miners  would  lynch  you." 

"  I  shall  take  my  chance  of  that/'  said  Ned  Mitchell,  stolid- 
ly, as  he  rose  to  go.  "  So  this  precious  vicar  that  everybody 
thinks  so  much  of  does  all  he  can  to  shield  his  brother?" 

"  You  can  hardly  blame  him  for  that.  You'd  do  the  same 
yourself. " 

"  Blessed  if  I  should!  Let  those  suffer  that  do  wrong,  say 
I.  My  sister  did  wrong;  but  she  had  her  punishment,  else  I'd 
not  have  lifted  a  finger  for  her.  As  for  these  sermon  vampers, 
it  would  be  small  harm  if  they  both  swung  together,  I  expect. 
I've  not  much  respect  for  parsons  out  of  their  proper  place—- 
the pulpit. " 

But  Martha  looked  scandalized  at  this  speech,  and  seemed  to 
regret  her  frankness. 

"  You'll  not  go  insulting  the  vicar,  I  hope,  Ned,"  she  said, 
uneasily.  "  '  By  their  works  ye  shall  know  them,'  the  Script- 
ure says;  and  if  so,  you've  got  nothing  against  the  vicar  but  a 
weakness  for  his  own  flesh  and  blood. " 

"  Well,  what  are  his  *  works  '?  What  does  he  do?  Does  he 
live  in  a  poor  house,  to  have  more  to  spare  for  folks  poorer 
than  himself?  Does  he  deny  himself  a  wife  and  children, 
that  he  may  be  a  better  father  to  his  flock?  Or,  if  he  despises 
temporal  things  for  his  parishioners,  if  not  for  himself,  does 
he  trudge  it  on  foot,  all  weathers,  to  give  spiritual  consola- 
tion to  people  too  ill  to  come  for  it?" 

"No-o;  that's  Mr.  Vernon  that  does  all  that.  But  Mr. 
Meredith  is — just  what  a  vicar  ought  to  be." 

"  A  pretty  figure  for  a  pulpit?  I  see.  Oh,  Fll  let  him 
alone.  Nothing  I  shall  say  shall  take  a  single  one  of  the  well- 
to-do  creases  out  of  his  fat  face.  I've  other  fish  to  fry  than  to 
go  hurting  the  feelings  of  your  pretty  vicar:  never  fear.  Good- 
evening.  " 

He  did  not  wait  for  his  curt  salutation  to  be  returned;  but 
slightly  touching  the  hat  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  take  off, 
he  opened  the  door,  and  walked  out  path  his  usual  ponderous, 
deliberate  step.  But  after  going  a  few  paces  he  stopped 
short,  and  returning  to  the  cottage,  thrust  ope»  the  door  and 
addressed  Martha  again : 

'  You  say  some  one  heard  the  cry  of  '  Murder!'  on  the 
night  my  sister  disappeared.     Who  was  it?" 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  163 

• '  A  lass  that  was  coming  back  from  Sheffield  with  her 
young  man — Jane  Askew.  They're  married  now,  and  she's 
Mrs.  Tims.  They  both  heard  it. " 

"  And  they  saw  nothing,  and  looked  for  nothing?" 

"  They  couldn't  agree  as  to  where  the  sound  came  from; 
and  perhaps  neither  of  them's  overbrave,  and  near  a  church- 
yard at  night  too.  But  going  along  they  met  somebody  that 
knew  more  than  them,  they  think;  for  he  was  limping  along 
at  a  great  rate  with  a  scared  look  on  his  face,  and  he  came 
straight  from  the  church-yard. " 

"  Hey,  and  who  was  that?"  asked  Mitchell,  with  strong  in- 
terest. 

"  A  tramp  called  Abel  Squires." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  mixed  up  in  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  hardly  think  that.  She  was  a  strapping  lass, 
and  he's  a  poor  crippled  fellow  with  only  one  leg.  Besides, 
what  should  he  do  it  for?" 

"  Anyhow,  where  is  he  to  be  found?" 

"  Ah,  that's  just  what  nobody  knows.  He  used  to  be  seen 
about  here  often  enough,  but  since  that  night  he's  only  been 
caught  sight  of  once  or  twice,  and  then  always  in  company 
with  the  same  person." 

"  And  that  person  is — ?" 

te  Mr.  Vernon  Brander!" 

4<  Thanks.     That'll  do  for  me,  I  think. " 

And  with  that  he  left  her  as  abruptly  as  before,  and  this 
time  walked  straight  back  to  his  own  dwelling  without  a  pause 
or  so  much  as  a  glance  to  right  or  left  of  him. 

For  some  days  after  that,  the  stolid  figure  of  the  colonist 
was  missed  from  the  village.  People  began  to  think  that  he 
had  decided  that  the  object  of  his  stay  was  hopeless,  and  that 
he  had  slunk  away  quietly  to  avoid  the  humiliation  of  owning 
that  his  dogged  obstinacy  had  been  beaten.  The  old  woman 
who  swept  his  rooms  and  washed  up  his  tea  things,  though 
much  questioned,  could  tell  nothing.  He  had  paid  her  up  to 
the  day  of  his  departure,  and  had  simply  told  her  that  he  was 
going  away.  But  whether  for  a  day,  a  week,  or  forever  he 
did  not  say.  No  board,  however,  was  put  up  before  the  cot- 
tage to  announce  that  it  was  to  let;  so  that  speculation  was  in 
favor  of  his  return.  Martha  Lowndes  was  the  only  person 
who  rightly  guessed  on  what  errand  he  had  gone.  She  alone 
would  have  felt  no  surprise  if  she  could  have  followed  the  track 
of  Ned  Mitchell  as  he  wandered  about  the  country  spending  a 
day  here,  three  days  there,  always  stolidly  unsociable,  and  yet 
always  contriving  to  get  more  information  out  of  his  neighbors 


164  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

than  the  chattiest  and  cheeriest  of  travelers  could  have  done. 
He  was  tracking  a  man  down  with  the  feeblest  of  clews — a 
wooden  leg  and  a  Yorkshire  accent.  But  he  was  gifted  with  a 
dogged  energy  and  patience  which  nothing  could  daunt,  and 
so  in  the  end  he  found  his  man.  The  place  was  a  common 
lodging-house;  the  time  was  three  weeks  after  he  started  on 
his  search;  the  man  was  Abel  Squires. 

Ned  Mitchell,  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the 
crippled  tramp,  thought  that  his  work  was  practically  done — 
a  witness  found  ready  to  his  hand.  But  he  was  mistaken. 
Luckily  for  his  object,  he  broached  the  matter  with  the  caution 
of  a  skillful  diplomatist,  so  that  Abel  had  no  idea  of  the  inter- 
est he  took  in  it.  But  the  Yorkshire  man  in  tatters  was  as 
keen  and  canny  on  his  side  as  the  Yorkshire  man  in  broadcloth 
was  on  his;  he  was  impervious  to  attack,  either  direct  or  in- 
direct, and  at  the  mere  suggestion  of  bribery  he  grew  closer 
than  ever.  Mitchell,  however,  did  not  give  up  the  game,  and 
at  last  he  hit  upon  the  means  of  opening  the  tramp's  mouth. 
Poor  Abel  had  a  partiality  for  strong  liquor,  and  the  tempta- 
tion to  indulge  in  it  was  more  than  he  could  resist.  The  wily 
Ned  was  cautious,  and  contrived  to  treat  his  ragged  compan- 
ion, not  wisely  but  too  well,  without  exciting  his  suspicion. 
But  even  under  the  soft  influence  of  rum  and  water,  the 
tramp  was  more  difficult  to  manage  than  his  tempter  would 
have  supposed  possible.  It  was  not  until  after  a  long  con- 
vivial evening  that,  Abel's  rough  head  having  fallen  at  last  on 
to  the  table  in  a  drunken  sleep,  Ned  Mitchell  was  able  to  stand 
over  him  and  say  to  himself,  with  a  gleam  of  savage  and 
doubtful  satisfaction  breaking  through  the  heavy  stolidity  of 
his  expression: 

"  You  miserable,  tattered  old  beggar!  Have  I  got  all  out 
of  you  that  you  have  to  tell,  I  wonder?  Anyhow,  I  think  I 
know  enough  to  hang  the  right  rascal  by.  But  I  shall  have  to 
work,  work,  work." 

On  the  following  day,  just  three  weeks  after  he  left  Rishton, 
Ned  Mitchell  was  again  seen  leaning  over  his  little  cottage 
gate,  smoking  a  bad  cigar,  and  staring  placidly  at  the  broken 
stocks  in  the  village  green.  The  first  persons  to  note  his  re- 
turn were  the  vicar  and  his  brother  Vernon,  who  strolled 
through  the  church-yard  together  while  he  was  standing  at  his 
gate.  The  younger  man  changed  color  at  the  sight  of  the 
colonist;  the  elder  wished  him  a  cheery  "  Good  -day. " 

"  Ha,  Mr.  Mitchell,  you  can't  keep  up  your  incognito  any 
longer.  We  thought  you  had  gone  back  to  Australia  without 
bidding  us  good-bye. ''' 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  165 

"  Never  fear,  Parson  Brander,"  returned  Mitchell,  dryly, 
looking  straight  into  the  clergyman's  kindly  eyes;  "  there's  an- 
other man  has  got  to  say  good-bye  to  you  all  before  I  go  back." 
He  glanced  from  one  brother  to  the  other  as  he  uttered  these 
words.  Vernon  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  but  he  looked 
yivid.  The  vicar  smiled,  and  gently  shook  his  head. 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  me  this  riddle  by  and  by,"  said  he,  in 
his  genial  tones. 

"  Whenever  you  please,  vicar,"  said  Ned. 

And  as  the  two  clergymen  passed  on,  Ned  Mitchell,  without 
deigning  so  much  as  to  glance  at  the  younger,  raised  his  hat 
to  the  Reverend  Meredith  Brander,  a  most  unheard-of  mark  of 
respect  for  him  to  bestow  on  any  dignitary  of  the  Church. 


CHAPTER    XVI11. 

BEFORE  the  first  day  of  his  return  to  Rishton  was  over,  Ned 
Mitchell  had  to  submit  to  the  threatened  interrogatory  of  the 
vicar. 

Ned  had  strolled  into  the  church-yard,  and  was  examining 
with  a  rather  cynical  expression  a  beautiful  marble  monument, 
one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  inclosure,  on  which  were  set 
forth,  at  great  length,  in  gilt  letters,  the  many  virtues  of  his 
late  brother,  "  Samuel  Robert  Mitchell,  of  Rishton  Hall  Farm, 
who  departed  this  life  February  the  eighteenth,  eighteen  hun- 
dred and ,  aged  thirty-nine.  He  was  a  kind  husband,  a 

devoted  father,  a  loyal  citizen,  a  faithful  member  of  the 
Church,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  below  was  a  similar  epitaph  for  "  Lydia  Elizabeth, 
relict  of  Samuel  Robert  Mitchell." 

At  the  foot  of  this  was  a  text,  cut  in  larger  letters  than  the 
rest:  "  In  death  they  were  not  divided." 

"  They  were  in  life,  though,"  murmured  Ned,  shaking  his 
head  slowly.  "  Never  a  meal  passed  but  they  were  at  it,  ham- 
mer and  tongs,  about  something  or  other.  Marble  had  need 
to  be  tough  or  it  would  split  up  into  shivers  under  the  weight 
of  lies  we  put  on  it." 

At  that  moment  he  became  aware  that  the  vicar,  who  had 
come  over  the  grass  from  his  house,  was  standing  behind  him 
looking  much  amused. 

"  Thinking  aloud!"  said  Mr.  Brander.  "  A  bad  habit,  Mr. 
Mitchell.  Imagine  what  it  might  lead  to  if  one  had  any  crime 
on  one's  conscience." 

"  But  parsons  are  supposed  never  to  commit  crimes,  are 
they?" 


166  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB. 

"'  Or  never  to  have  any  consciences?" 

"  No,  I  won't  say  that  The  only  criminal  of  your  cloth 
that  has  happened  to  come  in  my  way  has  felt  many  a  prick 
of  conscience,  Fm  ready  to  wager." 

The  vicar  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  did  not  attempt  to 
hide  that  he  felt  some  anxiety  as  to  the  other's  meaning. 

"  Whoever  he  may  be,  I  hope  so,  for  the  credit  of  my 
order/'  said  he,  gravely. 

"  Yes,  vicar,  and  for  the  credit  of  your  family,"  retorted 
Ned,  dryly. 

Mr.  Brander  did  not  look  surprised,  but  only  deeply 
grieved.  He  laid  his  handsome  white  hand  on  the  colonist's 
shoulder,  and  addressed  him  in  tones  of  almost  fatherly  ex- 
postulation and  entreaty. 

"Look  here,"  he  said;  "I  don't  want  to  preach;  there's 
nothing  I  dislike  more  than  preaching  out  of  the  pulpit.  But 
I  must  say  a  few  words  to  you  now  I  have  the  chance;  and  you 
may  be  angry  with  me  if  you  like." 

"  All  right,  vicar,  fire  away — I  mean  go  on,"  he  corrected, 
respectfully.  "  Let  me  tell  you,  it's  not  many  men  of  your 
profession  I  would  listen  to  (except  in  church),  where  you  all 
nave  a  prescriptive  right  to  do  your  worst  on  us.  But  I've 
learned  something  about  you  quite  recently  which  makes  me 
think  you're  different  from  the  rest.  So,  sir,  when  you  please, 
I'm  all  attention." 

"  Well,  then,"  began  the  vicar  in  his  most  persuasive  tones, 
"  don't  you  think  it's  very  uncharitable  of  you  to  come  over 
here  with  the  fixed  intention  of  ruining  a  man?  And  all  for 
what?  What  good  can  it  do  your  unfortunate  sister  now  to 
have  the  past  raked  up,  and  her  sins  as  well  as  those  of  others 
dragged  again  into  the  light?  Now,  do  you  even  think,  going 
to  work  in  the  spirit  you  do,  that  you  are  sure  to  light  upon 
the  right  person  to  punish?  Isn't  it  possible  that,  acting  with 
such  a  vindictive  feeling  as  animates  you,  you  may  make  an 
innocent  man  suffer,  for  lack  of  finding  the  guilty  one?" 

"  No;  to  be  plain  with  you,  vicar,  I  don't  think  anything 
of  the  kind.  As  for  the  feeling  which  animates  me,  I  think  I 
ought  to  understand  that  better  than  anybody;  and  I'll  let  you 
know  what  it  is.  I'm  not  a  generous  man,  parson;  years  ago 
I  might  have  been,  perhaps,  at  least  as  far  as  my  favorite  sis- 
ter was  concerned.  But  I've  roughed  it  a  good  bit  in  the 
world  since  then,  and  all  the  pretty  bloom  has  been  rubbed 
off  my  character,  d'ye  see?  But  I'm  a  just  man;  and  1  don't 
gee  why,  if  a  man  and  a  woman  sin,  the  woman  should  get  all 
the  kicks  and  the  man  all  the  halfpence.  That's  a  vulgar  way 


ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER.  167 

of  putting  it,  but  you'll  know  what  1  mean.  My  poor  sister 
goes  wrong.  I  don't  say  she  was  worth  much  sympathy;  and 
my  private  feeling  has  nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  she  had  her 
punishment.  She  was  ruined,  and  then  brutally  murdered. 
Yes,  don't  tell  me  any  humbugging  stories  about  her  going 
away  of  her  own  accord;  I  know  better.  Whatever  happened, 
poor  Nell  was  not  the  girl  to  slink  off  like  that,  and  never  be 
heard  of  again.  She'd  have  come  over  to  me,  if  she'd  had  to 
work  her  own  passage  in  men's  clothes,  as  they  say  the  lasses 
do  sometimes.  Well,  that's  the  woman's  end;  now  for  the 
man.  He  gets  the  woman's  love,  for  what  it's  worth.  I  don't 
put  much  value  on  such  things  myself;  but  anyhow,  he  gets 
it.  Then  when  he's  tired  of  it  and  of  her,  and  the  girl  grows 
importunate  and  her  love  inconvenient,  he  quietly  puts  her  out 
of  the  way,  and  no  questions  asked — " 

"  Oh,  but  there  were  questions  asked,  and  very  inconvenient 
ones  too,"  interrupted  the  vicar,  gently. 

Then  he  bit  his  lips  as  if  he  had  not  meant  to  say  so  much. 

"  Aha,  vicar,  it  looks  very  much  as  if  you  had  a  notion  who 
it  is  I'm  driving  at!" 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  deny  that  you  mean  my  unlucky 
brother,"  said  the  vicar,  gravely.  "  To  admit  that  is  really 
to  admit  nothing,  as  everybody  knows  he  was  suspected,  just 
as  they  know  too  that  I  myself  never  believed  he  did  it." 

"  You  judge  him  by  yourself,  I  expect.  You,  being  of 
calm  and  well-regulated  temperament,  can't  understand  how 
a  member  of  your  family  can  be  so  different  from  yourself." 

"  There  you  are  mistaken,  Mitchell,  as  others  have  been 
mistaken  before  you.  People  think  1  am  calm  because  I  am 
fat.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  been  so  worried  over  these 
suspicions  of  my  brother  that  my  wife  has  caught  me  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room  in  my  sleep,  too  much  disturbed  on  his  ac- 
count to  be  able  to  rest." 

"  It  does  you  great  credit  to  be  so  fond  of  him;  I  don't 
blame  you  in  the  least  for  it.  You  do  your  duty  as  a  brother, 
and  I'll  do  mine." 

"  And  I  believe  you'll  soon  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
your  duty  as  a  brother  to  let  the  unhappy  girl  and  her  history 
be  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible. " 

"  My  duty  as  a  brother  is  to  leave  your  brother  alone,  in 
fact!"' 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  I  believe  him  to  be  as  innocent  of  this 
business  as  1  am  myself?  But  these  suspicions,  which  he  can't 
ignore — for  you  take  no  pains  to  hide  them — are  demoralizing 


168  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

in  the  extreme.     They  make  him  silent,  sullen,  mistrustful; 
in  fact,  they  breed  in  him  all  the  appearances  of  guilt." 

"Ay,  that  they  do." 

"  Supposing  that  he  had  committed  the  crime,  don't  you 
believe  in  atonement?  After  ten  years  of  self-denial  and  hard 
work  and  sacrifice,  might  not  a  man  reasonably  suppose  that 
his  sin  was,  humanly  speaking,  washed  out,  and  that  he  might 
indulge  the  hope  of  some  human  happiness  with  a  woman  who 
loved  him?" 

Ned  Mitchell  turned  at  this  from  contemplation  of  the  high- 
ly ornamental,  castellated  tower  of  the  little  church,  to  curious 
consideration  of  his  companion's  face. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  very  dryly,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  en- 
couraging him  to  marry." 

A  deep  flush  overspread  the  vicar's  face  at  this  speech. 
Even  his  striking  amiability  was  not  quite  proof  against  the 
quiet  sneer.  No  annoyance,  however,  appeared  in  his  tone  as 
he  said: 

if  Certainly  I  should  not  think  of  encouraging  him  to  marry 
while  these  cruel  rumors  continue  to  be  spread  about  him.  It 
would  only  be  misery  for  both  of  them.  But  if  once  the  evil 
reports  were  silenced  and  forgotten,  1  should  urge  him  to  find 
happiness  in  what  I  have  myself  found  to  be  the  surest  and 
best  place  to  look  for  it — domestic  pleasures." 

Ned  appeared  to  consider  this  proposition  thoughtfully  for 
some  moments.  Then  he  said: 

"  It's  curious  that  you  should  be  the  first  of  your  family  that 
I  have  ever  heard  to  be  of  your  way  of  thinking,  parson,  isn't 
it?" 

Again  Mr.  Brander  reddened.  It  was  an  annoying  thing 
for  a  popular  spiritual  autocrat  to  be  questioned  in  this  in- 
quisitorial way  by  a  man  in  no  way  qualified  to  be  a  judge  of 
him  or  his  family.  But  his  patience  was  equal  even  to  this 
trial.  He  said,  very  mildly: 

'  Yes,  I  am  afraid — that  is,  I  believe  that  is  so." 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  it's  too  much  to  expect  to  find  another 
in  the  same  generation." 

There  was  a  pause;  the  vicar  looking  mildly  grieved,  Ned 
munching  a  bit  of  stick  with  much  relish,  while  he  regarded 
his  companion  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

Evening  was  closing  in  rapidly.  A  thin  mist  was  gathering 
under  the  trees  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  enshrouding  the  tomb- 
stones and  softening  the  outlines  of  the  little  white  stone  church 
and  of  the  pretty  ivy-grown  vicarage.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be 
heard  in  the  near  neighborhood;  and  the  noises  of  the  village 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  169 

— children's  voices,  lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  carter's  cry  to 
his  horses — came  up  faint  and  subdued  from  below. 

Suddenly  this  peaceful  stillness  was  broken  by  a  long  and 
dismal  howl,  which  startled  the  vicar  and  caused  Ned  Mitchell 
to  turn  his  head  attentively  in  the  direction  of  his  cottage.  A 
minute  later  it  was  repeated,  and  before  a  word  had  been  ex- 
changed between  the  two  men  on  the  subject  of  this  strange 
interruption,  a  yelping  and  barking  began,  and  mingled  with 
the  howls,  which  still  continued,  until  the  air  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  the  discordant  sounds. 

"  You've  brought  back  a  dog  with  you,  I  perceive,"  said 
the  vicar. 

"  H'm,  yes.     I've  brought  two.     Fond  of  dogs,  vicar ?" 

''  Very.     Are  you  going  to  offer  me  one  of  yours?" 

"  1  don't  think  so.  They're  not  exactly  the  sort  Mrs.  B. 
would  fancy  poking  about  her  pretty  garden.  They've  got 
queer  ways,  have  my  dogs. " 

"  You've  had  them  some  time?" 

"  Ten  hours.  But  they  were  being  prepared  for  me  before- 
hand. In  fact,  they  have  been  some  time  in  training. " 

"  Sporting  dogs,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  and  trained  for  a  particular  sort  of  game. " 

Ned  Mitchell  was  rubbing  his  chin  slowly  and  listening  to 
the  harsh  duet  with  much  satisfaction.  There  was  a  quiet 
significance  in  his  words  and  manner  which  kept  alive  the 
curiosity  of  the  vicar. 

"  1  should  like  to  see  these  dogs,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Ned,  with  great  heartiness;  "  choose  your 
own  time." 

"  Suppose,  then,  we  say  now?" 

"No wit  is,  then." 

Ned  removed  his  arm  from  the  tombstone  against  which  he 
had  been  leaning,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  church-yard 
with  alacrity. 

"  This  place  gives  me  the  horrors  toward  night-time,"  he 
explained,  as,  with  unwonted  civility,  he  opened  the  gate  fo> 
the  vicar  to  pass  out  first. 

:'  Why,  surely  a  man  of  your  sound  practical  sense  doesn't 
believe  in  the  ghosts  and  goblins  that  keep  the  ignorant  out  of 
church-yards  at  night?" 

"  No;  but  such  things  can  be  done  in  lonely  church-yards, 
under  cover  of  the  popular  horror.  You  agree  with  me  there, 
vicar,  don't  you?" 

This  pig-headed  colonist  would  harp  always  upon  the  same 
string.  As  plainly  as  if  he  had  mentioned  the  name,  his  tone 


170  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

intimated  St.  Cuthbert's  Church-yard  and  the  murder  of  a  girJ 
there  by  Vernon  Brander.  But  the  vicar  was  learning  how  to 
"  take "  him,  and  he  assented  at  once.  They  crossed  the 
little  village  green,  under  trees  whose  bare  branches  began 
now  to  show  small  tufts  of  delicate  young  leaves.  There  was 
a  strip  of  garden  in  front  of  the  cottage;  it  had  little  space  for 
flowers,  but  was  well  filled  with  shrubs  and  evergreens,  which 
grew  close  up  to  the  lower  windows  and  almost  shut  out  all 
light  from  the  tiny  sitting-room  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
door.  Ned  Mitchell,  leaving  the  path,  forced  his  way  through 
the  evergreens,  and,  holding  the  branches  apart  with  his  hands, 
beckoned  his  companion  to  the  window,  before  which  the  vicar 
perceived  a  couple  of  strong  iron  bars  had  been  put  up. 

"Why/'  said  he,  as  he  picked  his  way  daintily  over  the 
moist  mold,  "is  it  a  menagerie  of  wild  beasts  you  have  in 
there?" 

"  Something  very  like  it,"  answered  Ned,  as  a  couple  of 
brute  faces  with  hanging  jaws  and  blood-shot  eyes  dashed  up 
against  the  window,  licking  the  dusty  frames  with  long  red 
tongues,  and  jostling  each  other  with  hungry  eagerness. 
"  Whoa!"  cried  Ned,  as  he  pushed  up  the  window,  and 
stretching  a  fearless  hand  through  the  bars,  stroked  and 
patted  their  sleek  heads  with  an  assured  strength  and  coolness 
which  told  them  he  was  their  master.  "  1  must  have  the 
glass  taken  out  of  these  panes — what  there's  left  of  it — or  my 
pets  will  be  hurting  themselves." 

"  Your  pets!"  said  the  vicar,  as  he  peered  into  the  room, 
felt  their  hot  breath  on  his  face,  and  listened  to  their  hungry 
growling.  "  Well,  Mitchell,  you  have  an  odd  taste  in  your 
choice  of  domestic  favorites.  If  my  inclination  lay  in  the 
direction  of  a  couple  of  fierce  hounds  like  that,  I  think  I 
should  consider  that  old  kennel  in  the  back  garden  a  near 
enough  abode  for  them." 

"  What,  for  friends  I  count  upon  to  do  me  a  great  service?" 
exclaimed  Ned,  grimly.  "  Oh,  no!  my  hounds  are  already 
more  to  me  than  his  pig  is  to  an  Irishman.  No  place  that's 
not  good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough  for  them.  Besides, 
if  they  were  put  into  the  kennel  they  would  be  almost  close 
under  some  of  your  windows,  and  would  disturb  you  and  your 
good  lady  at  night.  They  make  more  than  a  lap-dog's  yapping 
when  they  are  uncomfortable,  I  can  tell  you,"  he  added, 
turning  with  admiration  to  his  hounds,  who  were  snapping 
savagely  at  each  other,  and  sniffing  the  air  with  dilated  nos- 
trils. 

"  They  seem  to  be  hungry,"  said  the  vicar,  who,  if  he  did 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  171 

not  share  their  master's  admiration,  was  much  interested  in 
the  brutes. 

"  Well,  which  of  us  wouldn't  be,  if  he'd  had  nothing  to  eat 
all  day?  It's  a  part  of  their  education  that,"  he  went  on,  as 
he  drew  back  from  the  window  and  took  up  an  iron  spade 
which  stood  inside  the  little  porch.  "  Now  I'm  going  to  show 
you  how  accomplished  they  are,  if  you  care  to  see.  If  I  bury 
an  old  bone  with  next  to  no  flesh  on  it  in  any  part  of  this  gar- 
den, they'll  hunt  it  up.  That  is,  they  will  if  they  answer  to 
the  warranty  1  had  with  them.  That's  the  accomplishment  1 
bought  them  for." 

"  Dear  me,  very  curious,"  murmured  the  vicar,  with  great 
interest.  "  And  this  is  your  first  trial  of  them?" 

"  Yes.  I  only  brought  them  back  with  me  in  the  small 
hours  this  morning,  and  they've  been  without  food  ever  since." 

4 '  And  are  you  sure  of  getting  them  out  of  that  room  with- 
out their  making  a  meal  of  you?" 

"  I  must  chance  that.  I  didn't  buy  them  for  lap-dogs,  and  1 
think  I  can  manage  them.  Anyhow,  I  intend  to  try.  I  sup- 
pose, vicar,  you've  no  mind  to  help  me/'  he  added,  rather 
maliciously,  as  he  turned  to  go  into  the  cottage.  "  It  isn't 
work  for  gentlemen  of  your  cloth,  I  know.  I  don't  suppose 
anything  fiercer  than  a  toy  terrier  is  allowed  by  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles." 

"  There's  no  mention  of  blood-hounds  in  them,  certainly; 
but  I'm  willing  to  help  you  all  the  same,  if  I  can,"  said  the 
vicar,  mildly,  preparing  to  follow  his  host  into  the  cottage. 

Ned  Mitchell  looked  surprised.  Then  he  glanced  rather 
contemptuously  from  the  plump  hands  and  neat  white  cuffs  to 
the  handsome,  placid  pink  face,  and  said,  dryly: 

"  I'm  afraid  they'll  make  rather  a  mess  of  your  linen,  par- 
son, if  they  don't  of  you. " 

"  1  must  chance  that,  as  you  say  yourself,"  said  the  vicar, 
calmly. 

Ned  nodded,  and  saying  he  would  be  back  in  a  moment,  he 
disappeared  through  the  porch  with  a  grim  chuckle.  When 
he  returned,  a  few  minutes  later,  holding  in  his  rough  fingers 
a  handful  of  moldy  bones,  the  vicar  was  leaning  against  the 
porch,  thoughtfully  turning  up  his  cuffs  and  his  coat-sleeves 
with  the  most  scrupulous  neatness. 

"  Not  a  very  tempting  feast  that,  one  would  have  thought." 

''  Well,  if  they  want  anything  more  tempting  than  that  to 
make  them  hunt  with  a  will,  I've  been  deceived  in  them,  that's 
all,  and  back  they  go  to  the  man  1  bought  them  from. " 

As  he  spoke  he  took  up  the  spade,  and  began  to  search  for 


172  ST.   CUTHBERT/S  TOWEK. 

a  suitable  place  in  which  to  bury  the  fleshless  bones.  He  de- 
cided on  a  spot  in  the  back  garden,  under  the  prickly  leaves 
ctf  an  auricula.  There,  right  under  the  branches,  he  dug  a 
deep  hole,  not  without  much  damage  to  his  hands  and  his 
clothes.  Into  this  hole  he  threw  the  bones,  covering  them 
carefully  with  the  displaced  earth.  The  vicar  laughed  as  Ned 
flattened  down  the  mold  and  stamped  upon  it. 

"  You  are  expecting  too  much  of  those  unlucky  brutes," 
said  he.  "I  quite  believe  that  they  might  grub  up  a  nice  fresh 
leg  of  mutton,  or  the  body  of  a  newly  killed  rabbit.  But  old 
bones  like  that,  and  under  two  feet  of  earth!  No,  my  dear 
Mitchell,  it's  not  in  reason. " 

"  All  right/'  said  Ned,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
"  If  you  think  my  little  experiment  is  not  worth  watching,  I 
won't  trouble  you  with  my  company  or  my  dogs." 

"  Oh,  but  of  course  I  must  see  the  end  of  this.  And  if  your 
hounds  do  answer  your  expectations  after  all,  I  quite  agree 
with  you  that  the  best  room  in  the  house  is  not  too  good  for 
such  clever  beasts." 

They  went  round  to  the  front  of  the  cottage  again,  and 
through  the  porch  into  the  narrow  passage.  Ned  brought  a 
lighted  candle  from  the  kitchen,  and  proceeded  to  search 
among  a  bunch  of  large  keys  which  hung  from  a  nail  in  the 
wall.  Meanwhile  the  dogs,  disappointed  at  the  disappearance 
of  their  master,  from  whom  they  had  expected  food,  howled 
and  yelped  with  redoubled  vehemence,  and  flung  themselves 
against  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  they  were  confined  until 
it  shook  and  creaked  on  its  old  hinges.  Ned  glanced  at  the 
vicar  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  Have  you  still  a  mind  to  go  in  there,  parson?"  he  asked, 
rather  maliciously.  "  You  clergymen  are  holy  men,  as  we  all 
know,  but  things  have  changed  since  Daniel's  time,  and  I 
doubt,  no  offense  to  you,  whether  he'd  have  got  off  so  well  if 
he'd  been  pitched  into  a  lion's  cage  at  the  Zoo  as  he  did  among 
those  old  Persians!" 

The  vicar  looked  nervous,  certainly.  But  he  still  stuck  to 
his  resolution  of  going  into  the  room.  Ned  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  whistled  softly,  staring  into  his  companion's 
face  as  he  fumbled  with  the  keys,  and  seeming  rather  to  enjoy 
the  notion  of  the  change  which  would  come  over  that  pink, 
plump,  mildly  jolly  countenance  when  the  fangs  of  one  of  the 
hounds  should  meet  in  the  clerical  anatomy.  He  felt  quite 
sure  that  it  was  the  vicar's  entire  ignorance  of  hungry  blood- 
hounds and  their  little  ways  which  gave  him  such  an  appear- 
ance of  placid  pluck. 


ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWER.  173 

"  Are  you  ready?"  he  asked,  as  he  put  the  key  in  the  door. 
''  We  shall  have  to  dash  in  pretty  quick  to  prevent  the  brutes 
from  coming  out." 

The  vicar  nodded,  and  came  close  up  beside  him.  Ned  gave 
him  a  last  and,  as  it  were,  a  farewell  look,  and  opened  the 
door.  The  ho»nds,  with  hungry  growls  and  jaws  dripping 
with  foam,  rushed  at  the  opening.  Ned  Mitchell  was  too  quick 
for  them;  he  was  in  the  room,  with  the  door  closed  behind 
him,  before  either  of  the  brutes  could  get  so  much  as  his  nose 
outside.  Quick  as  he  was,  however,  the  portly  vicar  was  be- 
fore him,  and  was  well  in  the  middle  of  the  small  room  by  the 
time  the  door  closed. 

Then  Ned  Mitchell  found,  cool  as  he  was,  that  in  fancying 
himself  able  to  master  these  two  fierce  brutes,  he  had  reckoned 
without  his  host.  In  a  moment  he  discovered  that  it  was  only 
when  satisfied  with  food  and  carefully  muzzled,  as  they  had 
been  for  their  journey  in  the  small  hours  that  morning,  that 
he  could  attempt  to  cope  with  them  successfully.  Both  to- 
gether they  now  flew  at  him,  springing,  the  one  at  his  throat, 
the  other  at  his  right  hand.  The  attack  was  so  sudden,  so 
fierce,  that  he  staggered  back  against  the  door,  in  danger  of 
being  overpowered,  and  struck  out  with  unsure  aim,  failing  to 
beat  them  off.  He  had  been  forced  to  drop  his  candle  when 
the  hounds  set  upon  him,  and  it  was  almost  in  darkness  that 
the  struggle  went  on,  the  man  cursing  and  the  animals  growl- 
ing, while  they  bit  at  and  worried  him  with  the  savagery  of 
ravenous  hunger. 

The  vicar  was  standing  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Ned  saw  his  portly  figure  in  outline  between  him  and 
the  faint  light,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  own  occupation  won- 
dered, not  having  any  great  respect  for  the  physical  powers  of 
the  Church,  that  Mr.  Brander  did  not  edge  further  away  from 
the  scene  of  combat,  or  show  some  other  sign  of  nervousness. 

"  Shall  I  help  you?"  asked  the  vicar,  tranquilly,  when  the 
struggle  between  man  and  hounds  had  gone  on  for  several  ex- 
citing moments. 

Ned  was  too  busy  trying  to  keep  off  the  dogs  to  express  the 
astonishment  he  felt  at  these  words  and  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  spoken. 

"  Yes,  for  Heaven's  sake,  yes,  if  you  can!"  he  panted  out. 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  in  answer,  when  the 
vicar  came  to  his  aid  with  a  promptitude  and  dash  which  a 
professional  tamer  of  beasts  could  scarcely  have  exceeded. 
Seizing  by  the  throat  first  one  of  the  hounds  and  then  the 
other,  he  choked  them  off  his  half-bewildered  companion,  and 


174  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

held  them,  yelping  and  gurgling,  while  Ned,  savagely  angry 
at  "the  parson's"  superiority  more  than  grateful  for  his 
timely  help,  picked  up  and  relighted  the  candle  with  affected 
unconcern. 

"  Well  done,  vicar!"  said  he,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  that 
he  was  not  particularly  well  pleased.  ' '  If  you  can  manage  to 
hold  the  brutes  while  I  find  the  key,  we'll  soon  be  shut  o/ 
them." 

"  Don't  hurry  on  my  account,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  quite 
pleasantly. 

His  bland  tone  made  Ned's  blood  boil.  The  colonist  re- 
solved, since  he  seemed  to  like  his  occupation,  not  to  curtail  his 
pleasure.  He  took  twice  the  necessary  time  to  find  the  key 
and  place  it  in  the  lock.  Then,  before  turning  it,  he  inclined 
his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  asked,  maliciously: 

"  Getting  tired?" 

"  Not  a  bit!"  said  the  vicar,  mildly. 

"  Hang  you!"  muttered  Ned  below  his  breath. 

The  next  moment  he  heard  a  rush  and  a  growl,  and  felt  the 
teeth  of  one  of  the  hounds  meet  in  his  right  leg. 

"  Halloo!"  cried  Mr.  Brander;  "  can't  you  manage  him?" 

Ned  did  not  answer.  Between  pain  and  rage,  indeed,  he 
would  scarcely  have  been  articulate  if  he  had  done  so.  He 
gave  the  dog  a  vicious  kick,  which  sent  him  howling  away, 
and,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  beckoned  to  the  vicar  to  fol- 
low him  out.  Before  doing  so,  however,  Mr.  Brander  had  to 
dispose  of  the  animal  he  was  still  holding.  His  arms,  strong 
as  they  were,  had  begun  to  ache  with  the  strain,  for  the  dog 
had  writhed  and  struggled  the  whole  time.  Then  Ned,  hold- 
ing the  candle  high,  and  examining  the  vicar's  face  with  ex- 
ceeding interest  and  equal  malevolence,  saw  upon  it  an  ex- 
pression very  different  from  its  habitual  placid  mildness.  The 
blue  eyes  were  flashing;  the  handsome  mouth  was  drawn  in  a 
tight,  straight  line;  the  clear-cut  features  seemed  to  have  in  a 
moment  lost  their  plumpness,  and  to  have  become  hard  and 
cruel;  while  the  soft,  white  hands  looked  strong  and  sinewy  as 
they  clasped  the  dog's  throat.  Ned  watched  him  curiously. 
The  vicar  looked  into  the  animal's  blood-shot  eyes  with  the 
expression  not  merely  of  a  master,  but  of  a  tyrant.  Lifting 
him  with  both  hands  high  into  the  air,  he  gave  the  dog  such  a 
shaking  as  set  him  gurgling  and  howling  and  twisting  his  body 
with  pain,  and  flung  him  to  the  far  end  of  the  room  to  join 
his  companion.  Then  he  crossed  the  room  without  any  haste, 
and  went  out  at  the  door,  which  Ned  shut  and  locked. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  vicar,  "  how  about  the  experiment?" 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  175 

Mitchell,  who  was  engaged  in  an  examination  of  his  injured 
leg,  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Well/'  he  muttered,  in  unwilling  admiration,  "  you  are  a 
cool  hand,  I  must  say." 

"  Cool/'  exclaimed  the  vicar  as  pleasantly  as  ever;  "  one 
needs  to  be  cool  with  acquaintances  who  invite  one  into  a  sit- 
ting-room furnished  with  a  couple  of  blood-hounds  and  noth- 
ing else.  Ugh!"  he  cried,  as  he  suddenly  noticed  the  condition 
of  his  hands,  which  were  smeared  with  blood  and  foam,  "  what 
a  mess  those  brutes  have  made  me  in!" 

Ned  laughed  shortly,  and  continued  to  stare  at  him  with  the 
deepest  interest. 

It  looks  very  unsuitable  now,  that  same  mess,  when  you 
are  all  the  parson  again,"  he  said,  dryly.  "  But,  curse  me 
with  book  and  with  bell  if  I  didn't  think  a  minute  ago  that  you 
looked  as  if  you  could  stand  the  sight  of  blood  as  well  as  any 
soldier." 

"  And  why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Brander,  who  had  by  this  time 
wiped  his  hands,  pulled  down  his  cuffs,  and  almost  recovered 
his  usual  exquisite  appearance.  "  People  seem  to  forget  that 
we  parsons  were  not  born  in  the  surplice,  and  that  we  have  all 
been  through  the  same  training  as  other  men  from  whom  a 
little  readiness  with  wrists  and  fists  is  expected  as  a  matter  of 
course." 

*'  That's  true,  parson.  But  we'd  always  looked  upon  you 
as  one  of  the  meek  'uns.  Now  if  it  had  been  your  brother — " 

"  Ah,  poor  Vernon!  I  think  all  the  spirit  has  been  badgered 
out  of  him." 

"  Well,  but,  parson,"  said  Ned,  still  gazing  at  him  with  the 
same  steady  and  curious  stare,  "I  think  you  have  spirit 
enough  for  two." 

Mr.  Brander  turned  and  met  his  look  straight,  eye  to  eye. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly  and  firmly;  "  and  when  it  comes  to 
»n  attack  upon  my  brother,  you'll  find  that  spirit  a  more  seri- 
ous thing  to  deal  with  than  you  expect. " 

They  had  come  through  the  porch  out  into  the  garden  again, 
and  were  standing  very  near  together,  with  the  setting  sun 
throwing  a  weak  and  watery  light  upon  their  f  acea  A  passer- 
by, noticing  their  attitudes,  looks,  and  tones,  would  have 
guessed  that  a  challenge  had  been  thrown  down  and  taken  up. 

The  two  men  bade  each  other  good-night  in  a  manner  which 
showed  on  each  side  both  caution  and  mutual  respect.  And 
having  retired  each  to  his  house,  they  instinctively  tried  to  get 
a  sight  each  of  the  other.  The  clergyman  went  to  his  study, 
and  seated  himself  with  a  book  at  the  window;  Ned  Mitchell 


176  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

took  the  air  at  his  back  door.  The  vicar  remained  calm  and 
smiling,  and  looked  amused,  when  he  caught  Ned's  anxious 
look.  The  colonist  took  things  less  easily. 

"  That  parson  '11  be  a  very  difficult  beggar  to  tackle/'  he 
said  to  himself  almost  despondingly.  "  I  could  manage  Ver- 
non  by  himself,  but  with  this  old  '  Soap-your-sides '  behind 
him  it'll  be  a  long  job — a  very  long  job." 

But  he  comforted  himself  before  going  to  bed  by  a  look  at 
his  blood-hounds! 


CFIAPTEB  XIX. 

THE  Reverend  Meredith  Brander  had  not  been  Vicar  of 
Rishton  and  compulsory  student  of  the  wiles  of  frail  humanity 
for  fourteen  years  for  nothing.  When  from  his  study  window 
he  saw  Ned  Mitchell  —  after  many  yawns,  several  sleepy 
stretchings  out  of  his  arms,  and  an  occasional  nod  of  the  head 
— retire  from  his  back  door  and  shut  himself  in,  it  seemed  to 
the  vicar  by  no  means  certain  that  his  neighbor  had  gone  to 
bed.  So  he  withdrew  a  little  way  into  the  shelter  of  his  win- 
dow curtains,  and  remained  on  the  watch,  beguiling  the  time 
by  composing  a  very  pretty  opening  for  next  Sunday  morning's 
sermon,  wherein  the  rising  moon,  as  it  showed  more  and  more 
of  his  laurels,  was  used  to  typify  the  grace  of  repentance  illumi- 
nating the  dark  places  of  the  heart. 

And  the  result  justified  Mr.  Brander's  doubts.  Ned  Mit- 
chell did,  it  is  true,  go  to  bed,  but  he  speedily  got  up  again, 
impelled  to  this  freak  partly  by  the  pain  in  his  injured  leg  and 
partly  by  his  unsatisfied  curiosity  concerning  the  accomplish- 
ments of  his  dogs.  The  vicar  smiled  as,  after  an  hour  and  a 
half's  watching,  he  saw  Ned's  candle  glimmering  weakly 
through  the  blinds;  first,  on  the  upper  floor  of  the  cottage, 
and  then  on  the  lower.  Presently  Ned  himself  reappeared  at 
the  back  door,  which  he  set  wide  open,  before  proceeding  to 
draw  on  his  hands  a  pair  of  stout  leather  gloves.  Then  he  re- 
treated into  the  cottage  again,  and  gave  the  vicar  time  to  open 
his  window  a  little  way  very  softly.  As  he  did  so,  sounds  of 
yelping  and  scuffling  reached  his  ears  from  the  cottage,  and  a 
few  moments  later  the  hounds  rushed  out  into  the  garden. 

The  month  was  May,  and  in  this  cold  north  country  the 
trees  both  in  the  vicar's  garden  and  in  that  of  his  neighbor 
were  as  yet  only  thinly  covered  with  leaves;  so  that  there  was 
little  to  hide  the  movements  of  the  animals,  which,  after  a 
preliminary  scamper  round  the  house  and  an  attempt  to  get 
through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  began  to  sneak  about  close  to 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  177 

the  walls  and  under  the  shrubs,  sniffing,  prowling,  scratching, 
like  uncanny  creatures  half  seen  in  the  moonlight,  making  the 
branches  of  the  evergreens  sway  and  rustle,  and  uttering  from 
time  to  time  a  yelping,  whining  sound,  as  they  grubbed  and 
searched  restlessly  for  food.  The  vicar  pulled  aside  his  curtain 
and  watched  with  great  interest.  The  hounds  were  getting — 
whether  by  accident  or  led  by  scent  he  could  not  yet  tell — 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  shrub  under  which  Ned  Mitchell  had 
buried  the  untempting  bones.  Ned  himself,  from  the  upper 
floor  of  the  cottage,  was  intently  watching  them.  Hither  and 
Either  the  brutes  roamed,  in  apparently  random  search  for 
something  to  appease  their  hunger.  With  nose  pointed  always 
to  the  earth  they  crept  slowly  along,  or  bounded  a  few  paces, 
sometimes  raising  the  night  echoes  by  a  deep  howl,  more  often 
uttering  the  low,  wolfish  sounds  of  half-starved  savage  creat- 
ures. But  aimless  as  their  wanderings  seemed  to  be,  often  as 
they  deviated  from  a  straight  course  to  it,  they  did  both  come, 
siovdy  but  surely,  nearer  to  the  auricula.  The  vicar  rose  from 
his  chair;  Ned  Mitchell  hung  his  whole  body  out  of  his  little 
window.  As  the  animals  drew  closer  to  the  place  where  the 
bones  were  hidden,  they  seemed  to  the  careful  eyes  of  the 
watcher  to  grow  more  excited,  to  yelp  and  whine  more  savage- 
ly, to  sniff  the  cold  earth  with  keener  nostrils.  At  last  the 
muzzle  of  one  of  the  hounds  touched  the  prickly  leaves  of  one 
of  the  lowest  branches  of  the  auricula.  He  drew  back  with  a 
snort  of  pain.  A  minute  later,  however,  drawn  by  his  irre- 
sistible instinct,  he  returned,  and,  making  a  furious  attempt  to 
pass  under  the  low  branches,  retreated  again,  whining  and 
savage  from  the  effect  of  the  pricks  he  had  received.  The 
third  time  both  dogs  'drew  near  together,  and  this  time — re- 
gardless of  the  scratches  inflicted  by  the  thorny  boughs  on  their 
backs — they  pushed  their  way  under  the  auricula,  and  began 
to  grub  and  to  scratch  up  the  earth  with  might  and  main. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  considering  the  depth 
of  earth  with  which  Ned  had  covered  them,  the  blood-hounds 
had  dug  up  the  buried  bones  and  were  crunching  them  raven- 
ously with  their  powerful  jaws.  Ned,  uttering  a  short  laugh 
of  triumph,  raised  his  head  and  caught  sight  of  the  vicar,  who 
now,  regardless  of  concealment,  was  pressing  close  to  the  win- 
dow-panes of  his  study  a  face  which  looked  of  a  greenish  pallor 
in  the  moonlight.  Ned  watched  him  with  an  intent,  glaring 
gaze  for  a  few  seconds;  then,  shutting  his  little  window 
rapidly  and  noiselessly,  he  slipped  out  of  the  cottage  by  the 
front  door,  and  making  his  way  round  to  the  back  stealthily 
under  cover  of  the  evergreens,  crept  along  in  the  shadow  un- 


178  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

der  the  dividing  wall  until  he  stood,  unseen  by  the  vicar,  almost 
under  the  latter's  window.  After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments 
his  curiosity  was  rewarded. 

"Poor  Vernon!  My  poor  brother!"  murmured  the  vicar 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Then  Ned,  hugging  himself  and  indulging  in  a  knowing 
smile  of  satisfaction,  heard  the  study  window  close. 

He  crept  back  into  his  little  house  by  the  way  he  had  come, 
narrowly  escaping  the  attentions  of  his  hounds,  which,  having 
quickly  finished  the  scanty  meal  the  dry  bones  afforded  them, 
seemed  inclined  to  try,  as  more  nourishing,  the  person  of 
their  master.  He  went  in-doors,  armed  himself  with  a  plate  of 
raw  meat  in  one  hand  and  a  short  whip  in  the  other,  and  call- 
ing them  into  the  house,  succeeded  in  shutting  them  up  once 
more  in  the  room  they  had  previously  occupied. 

"  Good  dogs!  good  dogs!"  he  said,  approvingly,  as  he  stood 
at  the  crack  of  the  door  and  watched  them  snarling  over  their 
food.  "  That's  nothing  to  the  meal  you  shall  have  when 
you've  hunted  out  the  next  lot  of  old  bones  I  shall  set  you 
grubbing  for. " 

„.  And  with  another  grim  chuckle  as  he  closed  the  back  door 
and  gave  a  glance  at  the  now  deserted  study  window  of  the 
vicarage,  Ned  Mitchell  retired  for  the  night  with  a  light  heart 
and  a  good  conscience. 

Next  morning  Ned  was  early  on  the  watch,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  wound  in  his  leg  gave  him  a  good  deal  of  pain. 
He  saw  the  vicar  go  out  a  couple  of  hours  earlier  than  usual; 
and  instead  of  walking,  as  was  his  custom  in  the  morning,  was 
on  his  cob.  Ned  nodded  to  him  as  he  went  by,  and  timed  his 
absence  by  a  ponderous  gold  watch  which  was  with  him  night 
and  day. 

"  An  hoar  and  twenty  minutes,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  Mr. 
Brander  returning  at  an  ambling,  clerical  pace,  and,  meeting 
the  nurse  with  his  little  son  descending  the  hill  for  their  morn- 
ing walk,  gave  the  boy  a  ride  in  front  of  him  as  far  as  the 
stables.  "  Yes,  parson;  just  long  enough  to  ride  to  Saint 
Cuthbert's,  catch  your  brother  before  he  started  on  his  parish 
work,  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  chat — about  the  weather, 
let  us  say — and  be  back  in  time  for  your  own  morning  walk." 

Perhaps  Ned  Mitchell's  shrewd  face  betrayed  his  suspicions; 
perhaps  the  wily  vicar's  knowledge  of  men  was  greater  than 
any  that  books  on  divinity  could  impart;  for,  seeing  the 
colonist  leaning  as  usual  over  his  garden  gate,  his  shrewd  eyes 
lazily  blinking  in  the  spring  sunshine,  Mr.  Brander  nodded, 
wished  him  good-morning,  and  added  cheerfully: 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  179 

"  On  the  watch,  eh?" 

"  Perhaps,  vicar,"  answered  Ned,  touching  his  hat,  with  a 
knowing  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  How  are  the  pets  this  morning,  after  their  night's  work?" 

"  Night's  work?"  echoed  Ned,  who  had  entertained  the 
mean  suspicion  that  the  vicar  would  not  own  to  his  nocturnal 
observations. 

"  Yes,  I  did  a  little  bit  of  spying  too  last  night,"  answered 
Mr.  Brander,  who  seemed  to  take  a  frank  and  boyish  delight  in 
an  open  and  declared  warfare  with  his  neighbor.  "  How's 
the  leg  this  morning?" 

Ned,  who  chose  to  think  that  the  vicar  might  have  prevent- 
ed the  injury  to  his  limb  if  it  had  so  pleased  him,  answered 
with  a  tone  which  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  good  humor 
of  the  other. 

"It'll  do,"  he  said,  shortly.  "  How's  your  brother  this 
morning?" 

Again  Mr.  Brander  seemed  to  take  a  buoyant  pleasure  in  his 
antagonist's  cuteness. 

"  My  brother  is  very  well,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  And  I'm 
sure,  whatever  you  may  think,  that  he  would  be  quite  pleased 
to  hear  of  your  kind  inquiries." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see  about  that,"  said  Ned.  "  Now,  come, 
parson,"  he  went  on,  persuasively,  "  you  might  just  as  well 
confess  what  I  know — that  you  rode  over  to  Saint  Cuthbert's 
this  morning  to  put  him  on  his  guard  against  my  tricks." 

"  And  may  not  one  with  good  reason  put  an  innocent  man 
on  his  guard  against  an  avowed  enemy?" 

"  I  am  not  your  brother's  enemy,  Mr.  Brander.  I  am  the 
enemy  of  the  man  who  murdered  my  sister.  It  is  you  who  are 
saying  that  they  are  one  and  the  same. " 

"No,  no,  no!"  broke  out  the  vicar,  with  vehemence  un- 
usual to  him.  "  The  fact  is,  you  have  come  here  with  what 
you  consider  a  strong  case  against  the  poor  fellow,  and  every- 
thing you  hear  goes  to  pad  up  that  case.  If  I  believed  in  my 
brother's  guilt,  do  you  suppose  I  should  leave  my  little  daugh- 
ter in  his  care,  as  I  have  done  for  the  last  week,  and  intend  to 
do  for  another  fortnight?" 

"  Why  not,  parson?"  said  Ned,  very  quietly.  "  Neither 
you  nor  1  are  simple  enough  to  think  the  worse  of  a  man  be- 
cause he  happens  to  have  made  a  little  slip  by  the  way.  The 
man  who  murdered  my  sister  didn't  say  to  himself,  *  I  will 
change  my  whole  course  of  life  and  become  a  murderer,'  as  if 
it  were  a  profession.  No,  he  is  going  about  the  world  at  this 
moment  just  like  you  or  me,  doing  his  daily  duty  as  well  as  he 


180  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

can,  and  perhaps  feeling  sorry  enough  for  that  little  slip  to 
better  his  life  in  atonement  for  it." 

"  Indeed,  indeed  he  is,"  broke  in  the  vicar,  earnestly.  "  If 
you  could  see  how  my  brother  works:  how  he  tries  by  every 
means — " 

"  Hadn't  we  better  leave  your  brother's  name  out  of  the  dis- 
cussion?" asked  Ned,  with  a  touch  of  dry  insolence.  "  You 
are  not  anxious  to  fix  the  noose  round  his  neck  yourself,  I 
suppose." 

The  poor  vicar  looked  beyond  measure  crest-fallen  and  dis- 
concerted. After  all  his  assertions  of  his  brother's  innocence, 
to  have  betrayed  himself  like  that!  He  stammered  and  tried 
to  explain  away  his  unfortunate  admission;  but  not  succeeding 
very  well,  he  made  haste  to  cut  short  the  conversation  and  re- 
treat into  the  house  with  his  little  son. 

Ned  Mitchell  was  not  left  long  without  an  object  to  interest 
him.  He  remained  sunning  himself  at  his  garden  gate  for 
some  minutes  after  Mr.  Brander's  disappearance,  and  then 
retired  into  his  cottage,  from  one  of  the  tree-shaded  windows 
of  which  he  soon  saw  a  person  approaching,  at  sight  of  whom 
his  rugged  features  seemed  to  tighten,  the  only  sign  they  ever 
gave  of  unusual  excitement.  It  was  Vernon  Brander.  From 
the  curious  glances  which  the  clergyman  cast  in  the  direction 
of  the  room  in  which  the  blood-hounds,  now  asleep  after  a  good 
meal,  were  still  confined,  it  was  clear  he  had  been  fully  in- 
formed concerning  them.  He  stopped  before  the  garden 
fence,  peering  among  the  evergreens  with  evident  interest. 
But  as  Ned  appeared  at  the  door,  with  the  intention  of  a  little 
talk  with  him,  he  hurried  on  toward  the  vicarage  without 
another  glance  at  the  cottage.  Ned  looked  after  him  with  a 
curling  lip. 

"  1  suppose  some  people  would  admire  that  fellow,  with  his 
lanky  face  and  his  good  deeds.  But  I  never  did  have  any 
fancy  for  your  martyrs,  especially  when  their  private  life  won't 
bear  looking  into. " 

And  after  watching  the  clergyman  until  he  had  turned  into 
the  private  road,  Ned  directed  his  attention  to  two  visitors, 
who,  attracted  by  certain  rumors  about  the  occupant  of  the 
cottage,  and  the  menagerie  he  had  set  up  there,  had  joined 
their  forces  on  the  way  to  pay  Mr.  Mitchell  a  morning  call 

These  visitors  were  Mr.  Denison  and  Fred  Williams.  Fred 
had  by  no  means  got  the  better  of  his  violent  admiration  for 
Olivia  Denison.  But  having  found  her  persistently  "  out " 
when  he  called  at  the  farm,  and  persistently  curt  when  he  met 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  181 

her  out-of-doors,  he  had  consoled  himself  for  her  frigidity  by 
taking  a  trip  to  New  York,  whence  he  had  now  not  long  re- 
turned. To  signalize  his  recent  achievements  in  the  way  of 
travel,  he  wore  a  wide-brimmed  hat  and  a  seasick  complexion, 
and  carried  a  revolver  in  a  leather  belt.  This  was  his  first 
meeting  with  any  of  the  Hall  Farm  people  since  his  return,  so 
that,  on  coming  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Denison,  who  was  pass- 
ing through  the  farm-yard  gate,  he  overwhelmed  him  by  an 
outburst  of  effusive  cordiality  which  astonished  that  gentleman 
beyond  measure,  but  raised  his  spirits,  and  soothed  him  with 
the  feeling  that  here  was  a  friend. 

Mr.  Denison  was  one  of  those  simple-natured  men  who  are 
only  too  ready  to  find  a  friend  in  any  one  who  addresses  to 
them  a  kindly  word.  Things  had  been  going  badly  with  him. 
Having  started  farming  with  all  the  skin-deep  energy  of  the 
enthusiastic  amateur,  he  had  long  ere  this  discovered  Ihe  per- 
versity of  the  whole  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms:  the  deter- 
mination with  which  sheep  die  of  the  rot,  pigs  take  the 
measles,  beans  and  pease  refuse  to  come  up  at  the  proper  time 
and  crops  fail  on  the  slightest  provocation,  or  on  none.  A  sus- 
picion had  begun  to  take  root  even  in  his  ingenious  mind  that 
there  was  more  in  farming  than  one  would  have  thought  while 
going  over  a  farm ;  and  a  stronger  suspicion  still  that,  if  things 
did  not  soon  "take  a  turn,"  his  new  profession,  instead  of 
making  his  fortune,  would  land  him  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 
He  could  not  fail,  moreover,  to  be  alive  to  the  sturdy  animosity 
of  his  rival,  John  Oldshaw,  and  to  the  ever-increasing  pleasure 
which  that  amiable  person  showed  on  meeting  him,  as  his  own 
prospects  of  finally  getting  the  Hall  Farm  at  an  easy  rent 
seemed  to  grow  better.  Olivia,  who  understood  her  father's 
temperament  too  well  to  communicate  to  him  the  smallest  fact 
which  was  likely  to  trouble  him,  had  never  uttered  the  name 
of  Fred  Williams  in  his  presence,  except  to  say  with  much 
haughtiness  that  he  was  a  quite  insufferable  person.  But  Mr. 
Denison,  who  never  disliked  anybody,  would  have  been  quite 
ready  to  set  her  aversion  down  to  groundless  prejudice  when 
Fred  listened  sympathetically  to  a  rambling  account  of  the  last 
outbreak  of  the  feud  with  Oldshaw. 

"  The  fellow's  such  a  cad,  too,"  complained  Mr.  Denison, 
mildly.  "  Not  that  1  should  think  the  worse  of  him  for  not 
being  a  gentleman,"  he  added.  "  His  son  is  a  nice  lad,  a  very 
nice  lad,  and  we  get  on  together  admirably.  If  he  were  only 
in  one's  own  class  there  might  be  a  Montague  and  Capulet  end 
to  the  business,  I  fancy;  for  if  he  were  a  little  better  educated 
I  should  almost  fancy  he  was  in  love  with  my  daughter  Olivia. 


182  ST.  CUTHBEET'S  TOWEE. 

You  may  have  seen  Olivia?"  he  contiued,  naively,  with  a  touch 
of  paternal  pride. 

Yes,  Mr.  Fred  Williams  might  have  seen  Olivia,  but  was 
wise  enough  not  to  own  to  more  than  this  at  present. 

"  Well,  the  use  that  young  fellow  has  been  to  me — me,  a 
man  old  enough  to  be  his  father — is  something  remarkable. 
In  fact,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  "  (Mr.  Denison  didn't  mind 
telling  anybody)  "  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his  hints,  T  should 
never  have  been  able  to  carry  on  the  farm  at  all.  Why,  if  I 
give  him — on  the  strict  Q.  T.  you  know,  for  it  mustn't  come 
to  his  father's  ears — a  commission  to  buy  me  a  few  sheep,  or  a 
well-brbd  shorthorn,  and  his  father  sends  him  to  market  for 
the  same  purpose,  he'll  contrive  to  get  me  the  best,  Mr.  Will- 
iams— me  the  best — I  assure  you." 

"  Indeed!"  murmured  Fred,  with  a  deferential  courtesy  en- 
tirely new  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  assure  you  it  is  so.  Now  I  am  not  one  of  those  old 
fools  who  fancy  that  a  young  man  will  do  such  a  thing  out  of 
friendship  for  a  man  of  his  father's  generation.  I  see  there  is 
something  behind  it,"  continued  Mr.  Denison,  astutely.  "  And 
1  confess,"  he  went  on,  growing  more  confidential  as  his  small 
friend,  while  listening  more  sympathetically  than  ever,  linked 
his  arm  within  that  of  the  farmer,  "  that  I  almost  wish  my 
daughter  hadn't  been  'brought  up  a  lady,'  as  the  saying  is, 
when  I  see  what  a  very  good  thing  young  Oldshaw  and  I  could 
have  made  of  it  together — he  with  his  knowledge  of  practical 
farming,  and  I  with  my — with  my  knowledge,  my — er — my 
knowledge  of  the  world,  in  fact/' 

"  A  very  good  idea,  sir — a  very  good  idea,"  assented  Fred, 
enthusiastically.  "  At  the  same  time  you  might  find  a  son- 
in-law  who  could  help  you  without  looking  so  far  beneath  you. 
1  say  so  far,"  he  went  on,  "  because  there  is  a  something  about 
you  that — er — makes  you  sort  of  different  from  other  people, 
you  know;  a  dignity  or  high  breeding  or  something;  and  per- 
haps your  daughter  may  have  a  touch  of  it.  I  say  perhaps, 
you  know,  because  I  scarcely  know  Miss  Denison." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Denison,  swallowing  the  bait  with  all 
simplicity,  "  I  suppose  there  is,  as  you  say,  a  certain  cachet 
about  a  man  who  has  lived  so  much  in  town  or  near  town  as  I 
have.  And  whatever  is  best  about  me  my  Olivia  has  certainly 
inherited.  But  whoever  my  child  marries,  it  must  be  for  her 
own  good;  not  for  mine." 

Simple,  selfish  Mr.  Denison  thought  there  was  something 
rather  praiseworthy  in  this  declaration.  Fred  listened  shrewdly. 

"  It  must  be  much  worse  to  be  badly  off,  or — or  not  to  be 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  183 

exactly  flourishing,  when  one  has  a  family  to  care  for  and  pro- 
vide for, "  he  suggested. 

Mr.  Denison  seized  his  hand. 

"  My  dear  lad,  that's  just  it,"  said  he,  almost  earnestly  and 
in  all  sincerity.  "A  man  on  a  farm  by  himself  must  be  in 
heaven.  On  the  same  farm,  with  a  family,  he  may  be  in — in 
quite  another  place." 

' e  I  see,  I  see, "  murmured  Fred,  pressing  his  arm  against 
that  of  the  older  man.  "  Money  market  tight,  and  all  that." 

"Tight,  I  believe  you!"  assented  Mr.  Denison,  bubbling 
over  with  his  confidences,  as  weak  men  do  when  they  have  had 
to  exercise  an  unwonted  self -repression.  "  You  would  scarce- 
ly believe  what  the  tightness  amounts  to  sometimes.  A  young 
man  in  your  position  couldn't  realize  it. " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  could  though.  Nothing  of  that  sort  that  you 
have  ever  borne  is  as  bad  as  what  my  guv'nor's  gone  through 
lots  of  times.  It  was  before  he  was  blessed  with  me,  and  of 
course  he  don't  talk  about  it;  but  you  may  take  my  word  it's 
true. " 

"  Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  Denison,  as  if  this  was  almost  incon- 
ceivable. Though  in  truth  the  airs  of  patronage  the  elder  Mr. 
Williams  liked  to  assume  had  often  caused  him  to  gibe  gently 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family  at  the  waste  of  pounds  by  men  who 
were  better  used  to  pence. 

"  But  it  seems  worse  for  you,  you  know — don't  seem  natural 
somehow.  Seems  as  if  it  were  the  right  and  proper  thing  for 
you  to  have  lots  of  money.  Makes  me  uncomfortable  to  hear 
you  haven't,  and — and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. " 

He  gabbled  out  this  broken  speech  with  an  air  of  modest 
confusion  which  touched  Mr.  Denison,  whose  finances  were  at 
a  distressingly  low  ebb.  He  pressed  the  young  fellow's  arm 
in  silence — rather  awkwardly,  but  with  much  feeling.  Fred 
went  on  quickly: 

"  Now  don't  be  offended;  you  mustn't  be  offended.  I'm 
not  of  enough  account  in  the  world  for  a  man  like  you  to  be 
offended  with  me.  But  if  you  wouldn't  mind — you  needn't 
think  anything  of  it — if  you  should  be  tight,  I  mean  straight, 
anything  like  hard-up,  in  fact,  I  should  really  feel  it  quite  an 
honor  if  you  would — " 

Poor  Mr.  Denison  was  quite  broken  by  this  offer,  which 
came  upon  him  unexpectedly.  He  protested,  stammered, 
grew  red  in  the  face,  and  dim  in  the  eyes.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man, sensitive,  and  not  without  pride.  But  he  was  weak- 
natured — harassed  by  difficulties  he  saw  no  way  out  of.  Al- 
though he  repeatedly  refused  Fred's  repeated  offers  and  with 


184  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

perfect  sincerity,  he  did  so  in  a  tone  which  encouraged  the 
young  man  to  think  that  his  yielding  was  only  a  question  of 
time  and  of  an  adroitly  chosen  moment. 

"  At  any  rate,  you're  not  offended  with  me  for  making  the 
suggestion?"  Fred  asked  at  last. 

He  was  glad  to  see  that  Mr.  Denison  looked  rather  disap- 
pointed to  think  that  he  was  taken  at  his  word. 

"  Offended!  No,  indeed,  my  dear  boy.  One  can't  afford 
to  be  offended  at  a  friendly  offer  nowadays. " 

"  I  dare  say,  you  know,  I  haven't  put  it  as  nicely  as  I  might, 
and  that's  why  you  go  on  refusing.  Of  course  my  manners 
are  not  up  to  yours.  You're  refined ;  I'm  not.  But  I  mean 
what  I  say,  and  that's  something;  if  you  can't  be  refined  and 
all  that,  any  way  it's  something  to  be  sincere." 

"  It's  everything,  in  my  opinion.  1  shall  not  forget  your 
disinterested  kindness,  Williams.  But  what  put  it  into  your 
head  I  can't  think." 

"  Came  like  a  flash,  you  know,"  answered  the  young  fellow, 
promptly.  "  Gentleman  —  handsome,  dignified  gentleman, 
credit  to  the  parish — looks  humped.  What's  the  cause?  Sure 
to  be  the  old  thing — money.  Besides,  we've  a  mutual  inter- 
est, you  and  I;  you're  fond  of  dogs.  I  suppose  you've  come 
up  to  see  those  hounds  they  say  Mitchell's  got?"  he  suggested. 

For,  on  reaching  the  garden  paling  at  Church  Cottage,  they 
had  both  stopped,  as  if  their  journey  were  at  an  end. 

"  Well,  yes — no;  I  had  come  to  see  Mitchell,  certainly;  and 
I  had  heard  about  these  hounds  he's  brought  back  with  him. 
But  that  wasn't  altogether  my  reason  for  coming." 

He  would  have  babbled  out  his  reason  with  his  usual  in- 
genuousness if  Ned  had  not  interrupted  the  conversation  by 
calling  "Good-morning!"  approaching  them  in  a  leisurely 
manner  at  the  same  time. 

'*  I  know  what  you've  come  for,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  to  the 
younger  man.  "  They're  in  there.  Don't  be  too  familiar, 
unless  you  want  to  leave  a  pound  of  flesh  with  them." 

And  he  jerked  his  head  back  in  the  direction  of  the  room 
where  the  blood-hounds  were  kept.  Fred  Williams  did  not  wait 
for  further  conversation,  but  raising  his  hat  with  great  cere- 
mony to  Mr.  Denison,  and  shaking  his  hand  warmly,  he  went 
through  the  gate  and  up  to  the  cottage  window.  Ned  threw 
at  him  with  some  disdain  what  may  be  described  as  half  a 
glance. 

"  Unlicked  cub,  that!"  he  said,  not  much  caring  whether 
the  subject  of  his  remark  heard  it  or  not. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB.  185 

The  guileless  and  grateful  Mr.  Denison  demurred  at  this, 
and  Ned  did  not  think  the  point  worth  discussing. 

"  I  suppose  you  didn't  come  up  to  talk  about  dogs?"  he 
asked,  dryly. 

"  Why,  no.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Mr.  Denison,  with 
the  hesitation  of  a  person  unused  to  come  straight  to  the  point, 
"  I  have  heard  odd  reports  about;  I — I — ' 

"  Have  come  to  the  wrong  shop,  Mr.  Denison,  if  you  expect 
to  hear  any  village  gossip  from  me." 

"  Quite  so,  quite  so.  But  everybody  knows  now  why  you're 
here,"  said  Mr.  Denison.  "  And  as  the  man  they  say  you're 
after  is  an  admirer  of  my  daughter's — " 

"  '  They  say  '  a  lot  of  things,  Mr.  Denison,  which  I  advise 
you  not  to  listen  to." 

"  But  I've  been  quite  discourteous  to  this  gentleman  on  the 
strength  of  your  suspicions!" 

"  Well,  I  should  find  some  stronger  ground  to  go  upon  be- 
fore I  was  discourteous  again." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  these  dreadful  stories?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  any  dreadful  stories." 

"  Mr.  Mitchell,  I  beg  you  to  be  plain  with  me.  Am  I  right 
in  refusing  to  have  anything  to  say  to  —  a  certain  clerical 
neighbor  of  ours?" 

"  Mr.  Denison,  if  my  advice  is  worth  anything,  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  any  clerical  neighbors." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Mitchell,  that  is  enough  for  me.  I  see 
you  wish  to  steer  clear  of  libel.  But  I  understand  your  warn- 
ing, and  I  thank  you.  Vernon  Brander  shall  not  enter  my 
house  again. " 

He  wished  the  colonist  good-morning,  and  went  back  to  his 
farm  with  a  more  satisfied  conscience.  His  wife,  then,  had  not 
been  so  far  wrong  in  her  estimate  of  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's,  though  her  treatment  might  have  been  open  to  criti- 
cism. But  Ned  Mitchell  looked  after  him  with  the  tight-lipped 
smile  of  contempt  with  which  he  was  always  so  ready. 

"  Does  he  really  think  a  few  mumbling  words  from  him  will 
turn  that  strong-willed  lass,  1  wonder?"  thought  he. 

And  dismissing  the  subject  with  a  short  laugh  of  derision, 
his  thoughts  turned  to  his  hounds,  and  to  a  plan  which  he  was 
nourishing  very  near  his  heart. 

That  very  day  he  resolved  to  put  it  into  practice.  In  the 
early  part  of  the  afternoon,  therefore,  he  strolled  down  to  St. 
Cuthbert's,  found  the  church-yard  gate  securely  fastened,  and, 
making  a  circuit  of  the  walls,  discovered  a  point  where  it  was 
of  no  very  formidable  height. 


186  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB. 

"  1  think  my  beauties  could  do  that!"  chuckled  he  to  him- 
self. And  returning  straight  to  his  cottage,  he  remained 
within  doors  until  the  sun  began  to  go  down. 

Then,  going,  as  he  now  did  without  fear,  into  the  room 
where  the  hounds,  again  ravenous  with  hunger,  were  yelping 
and  savagely  howling,  he  cowed  them  with  a  small  whip,  which 
he  did  not  scruple  to  use  cruelly,  and  securing  the  animals  in 
a  leash,  left  his  little  dwelling  with  them.  The  hounds  were 
fierce,  strong,  and  difficult  to  manage.  Ned.  who  still  limped 
in  pain  from  the  effects  of  the  bite  one  of  them  had  given  him 
the  night  before,  cursed  them  below  his  breath  one  moment 
and  burst  out  into  enthusiastic  praises  of  them  the  next.  He 
made  his  way  with  them  direct  to  St.  Cuthbert's,  going  over 
the  fields.  It  was  growing  dusk;  the  walk  was  a  lonely  one; 
he  did  not  see  a  single  human  being  as  he  made  his  way  slowly 
along,  surprised  at  the  ever-increasing  pain  his  wounded  limb 
caused  him. 

At  last  he  came  in  sight  of  the  ruined  tower,  the  patched-up 
walls  of  which  bulged  out  dangerously,  threatening  constantly 
to  fall,  a  mass  of  ill-assorted  fragments  of  brick  and  stone, 
wood  and  tiles,  into  the  disused  grave-yard  beneath. 

"  Steady,  my  beauties,  steady!"  said  he  to  the  yelping 
hounds.  "  Your  work  is  going  to  begin,  my  dears!  Steady 
now,  steady!" 

And  he  made  his  way,  with  the  hounds  still  straining  at  the 
leash,  to  the  spot  he  had  picked  out  that  afternoon. 

"  There  are  some  old  bones  for  you  in  there,  or  I'm  much 
mistaken,  that  will  be  worth  a  king's  ransom  to  me,  and  a 
good  home  for  the  rest  of  your  days  to  you,  my  beauties. " 

The  hounds  growled  and  sniffed,  and  leaped  up  about  him, 
as  if  madly  eager  to  begin  their  grim  hunt.  Close  up  to  the 
wall  of  the  old  grave-yard  he  came,  and  peered  over  at  the 
irregular  mounds,  overgrown  with  rank  grass  and  weeds. 
There  was  little  daylight  left,  but  his  keen  eyes  could  still  see 
dimly  into  each  dark  corner,  filled  with  old  stones  and  decay- 
ing vegetation.  His  hands  were  trembling,  stolid  as  he  was, 
with  his  eagerness  to  let  the  hounds  go.  His  eyes  were  hun- 
grily roaming  over  the  neglected  inclosure  where  he  believed 
the  clew  to  his  secret  to  lie,  when  suddenly  a  sound  came  to 
his  ears  which  paralyzed  his  arms  and  seemed  to  stop  his  fast- 
drawn  breath.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  little  child. 

Looking  again  more  intently  than  before  into  the  chaos  of 
broken  and  misplaced  tomb-stones,  he  saw,  peering  out  from 
behind  a  tuft  of  shaggy  brier  and  weed,  the  face  of  a  little 
child.  It  was  tiny  Kate  Brander.  Ned  looked  at  the  fierce 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  187 

brutes  and  shivered.  Another  moment  and  they  would  have 
been  loose  in  the  grave-yard,  ravenous  and  blood  hungry. 
Then  the  expression  of  his  face  changed. 

"  Yes,  he  has  got  the  best  of  this  move;  curse  him!  But 
the  game's  not  played  out  yet." 

And,  with  a  lowering  face,  and  slow,  heavy  gait,  he  turned, 
with  his  yelping  brood,  toward  the  road  home. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  stolid  calmness  of  Ned  Mitchell's  every-day  demeanor, 
which  was  but  a  mask  for  strong  passions  and  still  stronger 
resolutions,  broke  down  entirely  under  his  disappointment. 
If  the  moldy  old  grave-yard  of  St.  Cuthbert's  had  been  a  para- 
dise of  sweet  sights  and  sounds  and  scents,  he  could  not  have 
been  more  maddened  by  the  impossibility  of  entering  it.  Even 
the  innocent  child  herself,  whose  presence  among  the  ruined 
graves  had  prevented  him  from  letting  his  hounds  loose,  shared 
his  anger. 

"  They  can't  keep  the  brat  there  always,  that's  one  thing," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  limped  along. 

He  found  the  return  journey  over  the  fields  more  tedious 
than  he — a  strong,  healthy  man,  used  to  bear  great  fatigues 
without  any  ill  effect  —  could  have  thought  possible.  The 
hounds  were  growing  every  moment  more  troublesome,  strain- 
ing harder  at  the  leash,  snapping  and  yelping  the  while.  The 
wound  in  his  injured  leg  was  beginning  to  smart  and  burn, 
the  muscles  were  swelling  most  painfully,  and  long  before  he 
reached  Rishton  Hill  every  step  was  causing  him  acute  agony. 
The  last  field  he  had  to  cross  brought  him  out  into  the  road 
almost  opposite  the"  farm-yard  gate  of  Rishton  Hall.  Leaning 
against  the  gate  and  stroking  the  shaggy  head  of  a  poor  old 
mongrel  which  had  attached  itself  to  the  farm  since  she  had 
been  there,  was  Olivia  Denison.  She  looked  very  sad,  and 
stared  out  at  the  fields  and  the  gray  hills  beyond  with  a  face 
out  of  which  all  the  bright  girlish  vivacity  seemed  for  the  mo- 
ment to  have  gone.  She  started  and  blushed  on  seeing  Ned 
Mitchell,  who  had  succeeded  in  reducing  his  unruly  pets  to 
something  like  submission,  but  whose  temper  had  been  by  no 
means  improved  in  the  task. 

"  Oh!"  she  cried,  running  through  the  gate  and  coming 
fearlessly  within  the  range  of  the  leash,  "are  these  the  dogs 
I've  heard  about?" 

"  How  should  1  know  what  you've  heard?"  snapped  Ned. 


188  ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER. 

"  But  1  know  what  you'll  feel  in  a  minute  if  you  come  within 
reach  of  the  brutes'  jaws." 

For  answer  to  this  speech,  Olivia  stooped  and  laid  her  hand 
with  a  firm  touch  on  the  head  of  the  animal  nearest  to  her. 
Whether  he  had  been  cowed  by  Ned's  course  of  treatment,  or 
whether  there  was  something  peculiarly  sympathetic  to  the 
animals  in  her  boJd  manner  of  approaching  them,  the  dog  only 
gave  an  ungracious  growl,  but  made  no  attempt  to  resent  her 
advances  more  actively. 

"  And  are  these — blood-hounds?"  she  asked,  almost  with 
bated  breath. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  they  are,"  answered  Ned,  as  if  he  had 
been  challenged. 

Olivia's  breath  came  more  quickly  as,  still  looking  down  at 
the  brutes,  and  even  playing  with  the  ears  of  one  of  them,  she 
listened  and  evidently  read  the  meaning  of  his  tone. 

"  What  have  you  got  them  for?"  she  asked,  raising  her 
head  suddenly,  and  looking  at  him  askance. 

"  I've  got  them  to  play  sexton  for  me  in  Saint  Cuthbert's 
Church-yard;  to  dig  up  some  bones  there  that  were  buried  with 
less  ceremony  than  they  ought  to  have  had." 

"  There  are  a  good  many  bones  in  that  old  church-yard. 
How  do  you  know  your  hounds  will  dig  up  the  right  ones?" 

"  It's  sixty  years  since  any  body  was  buried  there — until  ten 


And  if  you  should  happen  to  come  upon  these  bones,  and 
even  be  sure  they  are  the  right  ones,  how  will  you  be  sure  who 
put  them  there?" 

"  I  don't  say  I  shall.  But  at  any  rate  it  will  be  a  step  in 
the  right  direction.  And  I  shall  have  my  eye  on  any  likely 
folk  who  may  be  about,  and  see  how  they  take  the  discovery." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you're  no  better  than  a  detective,"  burst 
out  Olivia,  hotly. 

"  Well,  1  hope  I'm  no  worse,"  said  Ned,  laconically. 

Olivia  turned  her  head  away,  looking  hurt  and  anxious. 

Ned,  who  liked  and  admired  the  girl,  felt  a  little  sorry.  He 
moved  off  with  his  dogs,  and  began  to  whistle;  but  the  pain 
of  starting  again  made  him  break  short  off  and  draw  his 
breath  sharply  through  his  teeth.  This  attracted  Olivia's  at- 
tention; she  watched  him  as  he  labored  up  the  hill,  and  before 
he  had  gone  very  far  she  ran  after  him. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Mitchell?"  she  asked. 
"  You  walk  lame  to-night.  Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

"  No.  And  what's  that  to  you  if  I  have?"  he  answered, 
curtly. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  189 

"  Nothing,  if  you  don't  think  sympathy  worth  having/' 

Ned  stopped.  The  strong-limbed,  plucky  women  he  had 
got  used  to  in  Australia,  and  from  whom  he  had  chosen  his 
own  wife,  were  rather  lacking  in  graceful  feminine  ways;  so 
this  pretty  speech  and  gentle  tone,  coming  from  a  girl  whose 
spirit  he  admired,  touched  and  softened  him. 

"  What  are  you  up  to  now?"  he  asked,  gruffly  enough,  but 
not  without  betraying  signs  of  a  gentler  feeling  than  he  would 
have  owned  to.  "  1  know  better  than  to  think  you'd  trouble 
your  head  about  an  old  bear  like  me  if  you  didn't  want  to  get 
something  out  of  me. " 

"  Well,  I  want  to  get  the  pain  out  of  you — and  perhaps  a 
little  of  the  surliness,  too,"  she  added,  archly. 

"  The  first  would  take  a  doctor,  and  the  second  would  take 
a  magician. ' ' 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  a  doctor?" 

'*  No.  I  can't  go  after  one  myself,  and  my  establishment 
doesn't  include  anybody  I  could  send. " 

"  I'll  send  for  one.  I'll  get  one  of  the  farm  boys  to  go;  or, 
if  there  isn't  one  about,  Mat  Oldshaw  will  go,  I  know." 

Ned  looked  at  her  cynically. 

"  Poor  Mat,"  said  he.  And  to  think  I  was  fool  enough 
myself  once  to  run  errands  for  a  girl  who  thought  herself  as 
far  above  me  as  heaven  from  earth,  when  all  the  time  she 
was  dying  of  love  for  another  chap  too.  Just  the  same — just 
the  same." 

Olivia  blushed  and  looked  annoyed,  but  she  answered, 
quietly: 

"  Mat  would  do  a  kind  deed  for  any  one,  Mr.  Mitchell. 
And  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  to  think  that  it  is  a  sign  of 
great  wisdom  to  be  discourteous  to  a  woman." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Ned,  grimly.  "  Sorry  I  haven't  time 
to  let  you  exercise  your  wit  on  me  a  little  longer.  Good- 
night." 

He  hobbled  up  the  hill  with  great  and  evident  difficulty,  his 
dogs  slinking  behind  him.  He  was  absolutely  faint  with  pain 
by  the  time  he  reached  home. 

It  was  quite  dark  in  the  cottage  when  he  arrived,  and  he 
made  his  way  at  once  to  a  shelf  in  a  passage  where  a  box  of 
matches  and  a  candle  were  kept.  But  he  felt  from  end  to  end 
of  the  shelf  without  being  able  to  find  either.  The  dogs,  hav- 
ing become  excited  since  their  entrance,  sniffed  about  the  floor, 
yelped  and  pulled  afresh  at  the  leash,  impeding  his  move- 
ments. He  had  shut  the  front  door  on  entering,  relying  on 


190  ST.  CUTHBEET'S  TOWER. 

his  candle  and  match-box;  so  that  he  could  not  even  see  the 
forms  of  the  struggling  animals  to  avoid  them.  Two  or  three 
times  he  stumbled  and  set  them  growling  as  he  groped  his  way 
toward  the  room  where  he  kept  them  shut  up.  A  dizziness 
was  creeping  over  him,  which  seemed  from  time  to  time  almost 
to  overcome  him,  while  occasionally  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
leave  his  head  again  perfectly  clear.  He  remembered,  or 
thought  he  remembered,  that  he  had  left  the  door  of  the  room 
wide  open  for  ventilation;  but  now  he  went  the  whole  length 
of  the  wall,  feeling  with  his  disengaged  hand,  without  finding 
any  opening. 

The  hounds  meanwhile  were  growing  more  excited — more 
troublesome  than  ever;  so  that,  in  his  dizzy  and  wearied  con- 
dition he  could  not  move  or  even  think  with  his  usual  pre- 
cision. Their  behavior,  however,  at  last  roused  a  suspicion  in 
his  mind. 

"  Somebody 's  been  in  here,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  And  the  dogs  know  it  by  the  scent." 

He  had  grown  bewildered  in  the  darkness,  and  no  longer 
knew  in  what  part  of  the  passage  he  was  standing,  as  the  dogs, 
still  straining  to  get  free,  pulled  him  from  side  to  side.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  the  faint  creaking  of  a  door.  The  dizziness 
was  coming  upon  him  again,  and  he  turned,  in  a  half-blind, 
stupefied  way;  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a  faint  light  come  as 
if  through  an  open  door,  and  the  next  moment  found  himself 
lying  on  the  floor,  while  the  sound  of  the  hasty  shutting  of  an- 
other door  behind  him  fell  upon  his  dull  ears.  After  this  he 
became  unconscious.  When  Ned  came  to  himself,  it  was  a 
long  time  before  he  could  remember,  even  in  the  vaguest 
manner,  the  experiences  he  had  just  gone  through.  He  fancied 
himself  in  one  of  the  dungeons  he  had  read  about  in  his  boy- 
hood, which  bold,  bad  barons  built  under  their  castles  for  un- 
lucky prisoners  who  fell  into  their  hands.  In  strange  contrast 
to  the  prosaic  reflections  which  occupied  his  mind  in  every-day 
waking  hours,  the  most  fantastic  fancies  now  passed  through 
his  brain;  that  he  was  a  prisoner,  flung  down  here  by  an 
enemy;  that  fetters  of  red-hot  iron  had  been  fastened  to  one 
of  his  legs.  He  thought  he  heard  the  sounds  of  every-day  life, 
muffled  by  the  thick  stone  ceiling  between,  in  the  castle  above 
him;  the  noises  of  animals;  sounds  of  a  man's  voice;  then  of 
a  woman's.  He  recognized  the  tones  of  the  latter,  he  felt 
sure,  though  he  could  not  remember  the  possessor's  name. 
Then  suddenly  a  light  was  struck  in  his  dungeon  and  a  hand 
touched  him,  and  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  had  come  back, 
that  he  was  in  his  own  cottage  lying  on  the  stone  floor  of  the 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  191 

passage,  with  a  gray-bearded  man  kneeling  beside  him,  and  a 
woman's  skirt  brushing  against  his  feet. 

"  He  must  have  fallen  very  heavily, "  whispered  the  woman. 

And  Ned's  senses  came  fully  back  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "it's  Miss  Deni- 
son. " 

"  He  can't  have  fallen  as  heavily  as  that  unassisted,"  said 
the  gray-bearded  man,  whom  Ned  now  knew  to  be  the  doctor. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  was  thrown  down?"  asked  Olivia, 
in  a  whisper  of  tragic  earnestness. 

"  Yes.     Look  at  the  blood  on  the  stones." 

"  Oh!"     The  girl's  teeth  chattered  with  horror. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  doctor  lifted  him  gently. 

"  That's  the  leg  he  limps  with,"  said  the  girl. 

The  doctor  touched  the  wounded  limb  gently,  but  the  action 
made  Ned  moan. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  the  dogs?"  asked  Olivia,  presently, 
in  the  same  low  voice.  "  I  think  they  are  kept  in  one  of 
these  rooms.  My  father  said  so. " 

"  Turn  the  brutes  loose  in  the  garden." 

But  Ned,  though  the  movement  caused  him  acute  pain  in 
his  injured  leg,  struggled  up  on  one  arm  and  shook  his  head 
feebly. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  in  a  weak,  husky  voice;  "  I'm  going  to 
be  ill,  I  know.  Take  me  upstairs  to  my  room,  and  put  the 
dogs  into  the  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  landing." 

"  Oh,  come,  we  can't  have  that.  It  wouldn't  be  a  proper 
arrangement  at  all — most  unhealthy,"  objected  the  doctor. 

Ned  glared  at  him,  and  instantly  began  to  try,  in  a  dogged 
manner,  to  get  up. 

"  If  you  won't  do  it,  or  let  it  be  done,  why,  hang  you!  I'll 
do  it  myself,"  he  panted  out. 

"  I'll  do  it,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  said  the  girl's  clear  voice. 

Ned  heard  her  go  upstairs,  soothing  and  encouraging  the 
hounds,  which  scrambled  and  shuffled  up  after  her. 

"  That's  a  good  plucky  'un,"  he  then  remarked  to  the  doc- 
tor. 

And  satisfied  now  that  his  savage  pets  were  safely  disposed 
of,  he  fell  back  on  the  doctor's  arm.  For  there  was  a  curious 
buzzing  noise  in  his  ears,  and  his  head  felt  alternately  very 
heavy  and  very  light.  He  wanted  to  keep  his  senses  clear  un- 
til the  young  girl  should  come  down  again,  but  it  was  only  by 
a  strong  and  exhausting  effort  that  he  succeeded.  As  soon  as 
she  reached  the  bottom  stair,  Olivia  heard  him  addressing  her 
in  a  f  aint  voice. 


192  ST.   CUTHBEBT'S  TOWEB. 

"  Thanks — thanks  for  what  you've  done.  I'm  not  ungrate- 
ful. Now  get  me  some  one — to  look  after  me — who's  got  a 
little  nerve.  For  I  don't  care — how  they  treat  me — but  they 
must  take  care — of  my  dogs.  For  somebody  wants  to  get  at 
any  dogs,  I  know.  And  they  must  be  prevented — prevented. 
You'll  see  to  this.  Promise  me. " 

"  Yes,  I  will,  I  promise/'  said  Olivia,  in  a  firm  voice,  afraid 
that  she  was  speaking  to  a  dying  man. 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when  he  again  became 
insensible. 

Olivia  was  in  sore  distress  as  to  the  manner  of  fulfilling  her 
promise.  On  the  one  hand,  she  had  to  keep  her  word  by  find- 
ing a  nurse  for  him  who  would  not  be  afraid  of  the  hounds; 
on  the  other,  she  was  particularly  anxious  that,  if  he  should 
grow  delirious,  his  ravings  should  not  be  heard  by  any  one  who 
would  chatter  about  them. 

"  We  must  get  him  to  bed,"  said  the  doctor,  as  she  stood 
debating  this  difficulty.  "  The  young  man  who  came  for  me 
— is  he  about?" 

"  Mat  Oldshaw?  Oh,  yes,  I  expect  so.  He  stayed  in  the 
garden  when  we  came  in.  He  wouldn't  go  away  without  ask- 
ing if  there  was  anything  more  he  could  do. " 

"  Ask  him  to  come  in,  if  he  is  there,  please." 

Olivia  went  out  into  the  garden.  As  she  passed  under  the 
porch,  she  saw  a  man  slink  limping  away  from  the  side  of 
Mat,  who  was  standing  near  the  gate,  and  pass  behind  a  bushy 
screen  of  evergreens.  She  sprung  forward  to  the  gate,  but  the 
man  had  gone  out  of  sight. 

"  Mat,"  she  asked,  in  a  frightened  voice,  "  who  was  that?" 

"  Nobbut  a  tramp,"  he  answered.  "  Nobody  to  freight 
yer.  It's  ten  year  an'  more  since  he  wur  in  these  parts." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't,"  said  Olivia,  decidedly.  "  He  was  here 
four  months  ago.  His  name  is  Abel  Squires,  isn't  it?" 

"  Ay,  that  be  his  name,  sure  enough,"  answered  Mat,  with 
surprise.  "  Wheer  did  you  happen  upon  him?" 

"  Never  mind.  I  want  to  know  what  he's  doing  about 
here." 

"  He  wants  to  get  a  sight  o*  Mester  Mitchell,  he  says." 

"  But  what  did  he  sneak  away  like  that  for,  when  he  saw 
me  come  out,  instead  of  waiting  to  ask  if  he  could  see  him?" 

"  He  doan't  want  to  be  seen  aboot  here,  he  says. " 

"Mat,"  cried  the  girl,  earnestly,  after  a  few  moments' 
thought,  ' '  Mr.  Mitchell  has  been  knocked  down  and  hurt. 
The  doctor  wants  you  to  help  carry  him  upstairs.  I  wonder 
if  it  was  this  tramp  who  did  it?" 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  193 

"  Noa,  miss,  but  Ah  knaw  who  did,"  said  a  rough  voice  so 
close  to  her  that  it  startled  her. 

She  turned  and  saw  the  one-legged  man  whose  conversation 
with  Vernon  Brander  she  had  overheard  in  the  church-yard. 
The  ground  was  so  soft  with  recent  rains  that  his  wooden  leg 
had  made  no  noise  as  he  approached.  Olivia  drew  her  breath 
sharply  through  her  teeth  and  felt  cold  with  terror  as  she 
looked  at  his  weather-worn,  strangely  inexpressive  face.  Here, 
she  thought,  was  the  man  whose  silence  about  that  miserable 
night's  work  of  ten  years  ago  Vernon  had  had  so  much  diffi- 
culty in  procuring.  And  he  had  come  with  the  express  pur- 
pose of  seeing  Ned  Mitchell,  whom  she  looked  upon  as  ver- 
non's  avowed  enemy. 

"  You  know  who  knocked  Mr.  Mitchell  down?"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"  Ay/'  said  Abel  Squires,  with  a  nod. 

She  had  a  fancy  that  this  man  was  trying  to  implicate  Ver- 
non, and  she  scarcely  dared  to  frame  her  next  question. 

"  You  mean  that  you  saw  him  do  it?"  she  asked,  after  a 
short  pause. 

"  Ah  werr  standin'  in  's  bit  o'  garden  at  back  theer,"  said 
he,  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage.  "  An' 
Ah  see  a  mon  go  in,  and  after  a  bit  Ah  see  him  coorn  aht. 
An*  if  Mester  Mitchell  wur  knocked  deaun,"  he  went  on, 
doggedly,  "  Ah  say  Ah  knaw  t'  mon  as  did  it.  An*  it  bean't 
no  good  to  ask  me  who  t'  was,  for  Ah  mean  to  keeap  me  awn 
counsel;  Ah'm  used  to  }i." 

Olivia  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  man.  Though  his 
voice  was  rough,  his  manner  of  speech  was  mild,  and  betrayed 
no  hostile  feeling  toward  anybody. 

"  Are  you  a  friend  of  Mr.  Mitchell's?"  she  asked,  ten- 
tatively. 

"  Ay,"  nodded  Abel,  good-humoredly.  "  He's  never  done 
naw  harm  to  me." 

Seized  with  a  bold  idea,  Olivia  scanned  the  man  narrowly 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  business  brought  you  to  see  Mr. 
Mitchell?"  she  asked,  frankly. 

Abel  Squires  examined  the  girl's  face  closely  in  his  turn. 

"  What  do  you  knaw  abaht  it?"  he  asked,  shortly. 

"  I  know  that  he  is  trying  to  find  out  a  secret;  a  secret 
which  1  think  you  know." 

"Maybe  Ah  do,  may  be  Ah  don't;  anyhow,  Ah  doan!t 
prate  abaht  it!" 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Mitchell  for?" 


194  ST.   CTJTHBEKT'S  TOWER 

"  Ah  think  he  got  summat  aht  o'  me  last  toime  Ah  see  him; 
Ah  want  to  knaw  how  mooch." 

The  girl's  face  cleared. 

"  Could  you  nurse  a  sick  man?"  she  asked.  "  Mr.  Mitchell 
is  ill,  delirious,  and  I  don't  want  to  trust  him  to  any  prattling 
old  woman." 

"  Ay/'  said  Abel,  promptly;  "  Ah  can  do  't." 

"  Come  in  with  me,  and  let  us  see  what  the  doctor  says," 
said  Olivia,  leading  the  way  into  the  cottage  with  eager  foot- 
steps. 

She  was  surprised  at  her  own  daring  in  taking  this  step;  but 
she  argued  with  herself  that  if  the  tramp,  possessing  Vernon's 
secret,  as  she  knew  he  did,  should  wish  to  turn  informer,  there 
was  no  possibility  of  preventing  him,  while  he  would  be  within 
reach  of  Vernon's  influence  as  long  as  he  was  attending  on  the 
sicll  man.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  loyally  anxious  to 
keep  it,  there  could  be  no  better  person  to  watch  over  the  man 
from  whom  she  wished  to  keep  the  truth. 

The  doctor  asked  Abel  a  few  questions,  and  agreed  that  he 
might  be  tried  as  sick-nurse.  Tramp  though  he  was,  Squires 
was  a  man  of  some  intelligence,  and  had  picked  up  many  a 
scrap  of  practical  knowledge  in  the  wanderings  in  which  his 
life  had  been  almost  wholly  spent.  Before  the  doctor  and 
Olivia  had  left  the  house,  they  felt  that  the  patient  was  in  no 
unskillful  hands,  while  the  hounds  were  under  control  of  a 
man  entirely  without  fear. 

As  she  left  the  cottage,  after  listening  fearfully  for  some 
minutes  to  the  incoherent  mutterings  of  its  unlucky  tenant, 
Olivia  met  Mat,  who  was  dutifully  waiting  in  the  garden  to 
learn  whether  she  had  any  more  work  for  him.  She  stopped 
short  on  seeing  him,  and  said,  "  Oh!"  in  some  confusion. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Mat,  whose  loyal  admiration  for  her 
made  him  quick  of  apprehension.  "  You  want  summat  more 
done.  Whatever  it  mebbe,  Ah'm  ready  to  do  't. " 

"  You  are  good,  Mat,"  she  said,  gratefully,  with  a  bright 
blush.  "  Nobody  is  ever  as  ready  to  help  me  as  you,  or  so 
quick  to  know  when  one  wants  help." 

"  Ah  knaw  more'n  that/'  said  Mat,  encouraged  by  her 
praise.  "  Ah  knaw,  Ah  guess,  what  you  want  done." 

The  color  in  Olivia's  cheeks  grew  deeper  than  ever.  She 
said  nothing,  however;  so  Mat,  after  a  short  pause,  went  on: 

"  You  want  somebody  to  knaw  what  happened." 

Olivia  laughed  bashfully.  "  You're  an  accomplished 
thought-reader,  Mat.  "Who  is  the  person?" 

"  Parson  Vernon." 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  195 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  he  ought  to  know,  as — as  he's  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Mitchell's?" 

"  Ay,"  said  Mat.     "  Ah'll  go  straight  off  to  him  neow." 

"  Thank  you,  Mat.  And  be  sure  you  don't  forget  to  tell 
him  that  Abel  Squires  is  going  to  nurse  him. " 

"  Ah'll  mahnd  that.     Good-night,  Miss  Olivia. " 

"  Good-night,  Mat.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  you  this  evening. " 

Mat  blushed.  "  You  knaw,  miss,"  he  said,  in  a  bashful, 
strangled  voice,  "  you're  as  welcome  as  t'  flowers  in  Meay  to 
aught  as  Ah  can  do — neow  and  any  toime." 

And  he  pulled  off  his  cap  awkwardly  without  looking  at  her, 
and  ran  off  down  the  hill  before  he  had  even  stopped  to  re- 
place it;  while  Miss  Denison,  much  more  leisurely,  started  on 
her  way  home  to  the  farm. 

Long  before  Ned  Mitchell's  illness  was  over,  poor  Olivia 
had  grave  reason  to  repent  her  choice  of  an  attendant.  Old 
Sarah  Wall,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  in  for  a 
couple  of  hours  daily  to  do  the  cleaning,  was  now  installed 
permanently  on  the  ground-floor,  which  she  had  all  to  herself. 
The  front  door  was  kept  on  the  chain,  and  to  all  inquiries  it 
was  Mrs.  Wall's  duty  to  answer  that  Mr.  Mitchell  was  getting 
on  very  well,  but  was  not  allowed  to  see  any  one.  If  any 
further  questions  were  put  to  her,  or  a  wish  expressed  to  see 
his  attendant,  she  put  on  a  convenient  deafness,  and  presently 
shut  the  door.  No  one  was  admitted  but  the  doctor,  even 
when  Ned  was  well  enough  to  sit  up  at  the  front  window,  with 
one  or  other  of  his  fierce  hounds  at  the  side  of  his  chair,  and 
his  odd-looking  attendant  in  the  background.  The  evident 
good  understanding  which  existed  between  master  and  man 
filled  Olivia  with  foreboding,  and  caused  still  deeper  anxiety  to 
Vernon  Brander,  who,  having  called  at  the  cottage  day  after 
day,  and  failed  to  extract  any  information  from  Sarah  Wall, 
deliberately  walked  round  to  the  back  garden  and  climbed  into 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  upper  floor  by  means  of  the  water- 
butt.  Here  he  came  face  to  face  with  Abel  Squires,  who, 
hearing  the  noise,  came  out  of  his  master's  room  to  find  out 
the  cause.  He  tried  to  retreat  on  seeing  Vernon,  but  the 
latter  seized  his  arm  and  detained  him. 

"  Look  here,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  but  very  sternly; 
"  you've  broken  faith,  I  see." 

Abel's  wooden  face  never  changed. 

'*  Well,"  said  he,  doggedly,  "  Ah  doan't  say  Ah  haven't. 
Boot  it  was  forced  aht  o'  me  when  Ah  wur  droonk.  That's 
all  Ah  have  to  say. " 


196  ST.     CUTHr.KRTS    TOWER. 

And  to  demonstrate  this  he  folded  his  arms  tightly,  and  met 
the  clergyman's  eyes  stubbornly  and  without  flinching. 

"  So  that  man  knows  everything?"  asked  Vernon,  in  a  low 
voice,  glancing  at  the  door  of  Ned  Mitchell's  room. 

"  Pretty  nigh  all  as  Ah  knaw. " 

Vernon's  face  was  livid.  He  leaned  against  the  window-sill 
and  looked  out  fixedly  into  the  vicarage  garden. 

"  He  can't  do  anything/'  he  muttered. 

"  He  means  to  try,"  said  Abel.     "  Hast  tha  seen  t'  dogs?" 

"  No,  but  I've  heard  about  them;  and  they  won't  help  him 
much,"  answered  Vernon,  quietly. 

"  Tarn't  easy  to  trick  'un,"  said  Abel,  warningly.  "  He's 
none  so  oversharp,  but  he's  sure." 

Vernon  said  nothing  to  this;  after  a  short  pause,  he  bade 
Abel  good-day  very  shortly,  and  went  down-stairs.  Old  Sarah 
Wall  was  standing  at  the  door,  in  colloquy  with  some  one  out- 
side. She  cried  out  when  she  felt  a  man's  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der; and  Vernon,  hastily  telling  her  to  be  quiet,  drew  back  the 
chain  and  let  himself  out.  He  started  in  his  turn  on  finding 
himself  face  to  face  with  Olivia  Denison.  Being  overwhelmed 
with  anxiety  on  his  account,  it  was  only  a  natural  result  of  her 
girlish  modesty  that  she  should  appear  freezingly  cold  and 
distant  in  her  manner  toward  him,  even  though  her  curt  greet- 
ing caused  him  evident  pain.  After  the  exchange  of  a  very 
few  indifferent  words,  Vernon  raised  his  cap  stiffly  and  left 
her;  while  she,  angry  with  him,  still  more  angry  with  herself, 
walked  slowly  down  the  hill,  more  anxious,  more  miserable  on 
his  account  than  ever. 

It  was  on  the  ninth  day  after  the  beginning  of  his  illness  that 
Ned  Mitchell,  whose  impatience  to  be  well  materially  retarded 
his  recovery,  could  at  last  bear  confinement  no  longer,  and 
seized  the  opportunity  of  a  short  absence  of  Abel's  in  the  vil- 
lage to  make  his  way  once  more  down  to  St.  Cuthbert's 
Church-yard.  He  wanted  to  take  his  hounds  with  him,  but 
decided  that  it  would  be  rash  to  do  so  until  he  was  more  sure 
of  hie  own  powers  of  reaching  his  destination.  For  he  found, 
much  to  his  own  disgust,  that  he  felt  weak  and  giddy.  How- 
ever, he  set  out  on  his  walk  as  quickly  as  he  could,  taking  his 
way  over  the  fields  to  escape  observation.  Evening  was  closing 
in — an  evening  in  late  June,  warm  and  balmy.  He  chose  to  set 
down  to  the  summer  heat  the  dizziness  which  he  felt  creep- 
ing over  him  long  before  the  ruined  tower  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
came  in  sight. 

When  he  reached  the  lane  which  divided  the  last  field  from 
the  church-yard,  his  head  swam  and  he  staggered  across  the 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  197 

road  and  caught  the  gate  for  support  After  a  minute's  rest, 
he  raised  his  head  and  looked  over  into  the  inclosure.  Was  he 
delirious  again?  Had  the  wild  fancies  of  his  illness  come  back 
to  torment  him?  He  saw  before  him,  instead  of  broken,  moss- 
grown  head-stones,  rank  weeds,  and  misshapen  mounds  of  earth 
and  rubbish,  a  church-yard  as  neat  and  trim  as  that  of  Rish- 
ton  itself,  with  tombstones  set  straight  hi  the  ground,  well- 
graveled  paths,  and  borders  of  flowers.  The  church-yard  wall 
was  garnished  along  the  top  with  broken  glass,  and  two  notice 
boards,  respectively  at  the  right  and  left  hand  of  the  gate, 
bore  these  words:  "Visitors  are  requested  not  to  pluck  the 
flowers/'  and  "  Dogs  not  admitted." 

This  last  inscription  reassured  Ned  as  to  the  state  of  his  own 
brain.  He  laughed  savagely  to  himself,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes' rest,  which  he  spent  in  grim  contemplation  of  the  altered 
church-yard,  he  turned  to  go  home. 

"Whether  he  had  "  got  his  second  wind/'  or  whether  the 
rage  he  felt  stimulated  his  powers,  Ned  returned  home  much 
faster  than  he  came.  Just  outside  the  cottage  gate  he  met 
Sarah  Wall,  wringing  her  hands  and  muttering  to  herself  in 
deepest  distress. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  woman?"  asked  Ned,  in  his 
surliest  tones. 

"  Oh,  sir!  the  dogs,  the  dogs!  It  warn't  my  fault;  it  warn't 
indeed!  How  they  got  out  I  know  no  more  than  the  babe  urn- 
born!" 

"  Got  out!"  shouted  Ned,  with  fury.  "  What  the  d— . 
You  wretched  old  woman.  Are  they  lost?  Have  they  got 
away?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't  ee  speak  like  that;  don't  ee  look  so:  it 
warn't  my  fault.  Abel  should  have  been  there  to  look  after 
'em." 

Ned  kept  down  his  rage  until  he  got  emt  of  her  what  ke 
wanted  to  know. 

"  What  happened,  then?  Tell  me  at  once,  quietly.  Where 
are  the  dogs? 

"  Oh,  sir,  they're  in  there,"  said  the  old  woman,  pointing 
with  a  trembling  finger  to  the  cottage.  "  And  now  if  you  was 
to  flay  me  alive  could  I  tell  you  how — " 

But  Ned  did  not  stay  to  listen.  He  was  up  the  garden-path 
and  through  the  porch  before  she  could  utter  half  a  dozen 
words.  An  oath  and  a  howl  of  rage  burst  from  his  lips  at  the 
sight  which  met  his  eyes.  Stretched  on  the  floor  of  the  stone 
passage  lay  the  dead  bodies  of  the  two  blood-hounds,  foam  ajjd 
blood  still  on  their  jaws,  their  attitude  showing  that  they  Bad 


198  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

expired  in  great  agony.  Ned  hung  over  them  for  a  moment, 
touched  them;  they  were  scarcely  cold.  Then  he  stood  bolt 
upright  with  a  livid  face. 

"They  have  been  poisoned!"  he  whispered,  in  a  harsh, 
gurgling  voice. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

NED  MITCHELL  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  waste  much  time 
in  the  indulgence  of  an  outbreak  of  passion.  After  a  few 
minutes'  contemplation  of  the  dead  bodies  of  his  hounds,  he 
pulled  himself  together  and  prepared  for  action.  There  had 
flashed  into  his  mind  the  recollection  of  the  evening  on  which 
his  illness  began.  He  had  forgotten  until  that  moment  all 
the  details  of  his  arrival  home,  his  groping  about  for  a  light, 
the  sounds  he  had  heard  as  of  a  person  moving  in  one  of  the 
rooms,  and  the  glimpse  he  had  caught  of  an  opening  door  as 
he  fell  senseless  to  the  floor.  It  now  occurred  to  him  for  the 
first  time,  as  he  went  over  the  small  incidents  of  that  night 
one  by  one,  that  the  fall  from  the  effects  of  which  he  was 
suffering  was  caused  by  a  heavy  blow  from  some  one  who  had 
forced  an  entrance  into  the  little  cottage  during  his  absence. 

"  A  murderous  blow!"  he  muttered  to  himself  as — alone  in 
the  dusk,  with  his  dead  hounds  encumbering  the  ground  at  his 
feet — he  staggered  along  by  the  walls,  reproducing  the  sensa- 
tions he  had  felt  just  before  his  fall.  "  It  must  have  been  in 
here  that  he  was  hidden/'  he  went  on  to  himself,  as  he  found 
himself  at  the  door  of  the  room  where  he  had  first  kept  his 
hounds.  "  For  it  was  on  my  right  hand  as  1  came  in  that  I 
heard  the  noise;  I  am  sure  of  it."  Speaking  thus  slowly  to 
himself,  he  at  last  turned  the  handle  and  went  into  the  unused 
room.  It  was  musty  and  close,  and  he  had  to  open  the  win- 
dows before  he  could  breathe  easily.  He  had  a  match-box  in 
his  pocket;  striking  a  light,  he  examined  every  corner  of  the 
empty  room  with  the  utmost  care,  and  discovered  at  last,  close 
to  the  wall  in  a  nook  where  the  light  from  the  windows  scarce- 
ly penetrated,  two  dried-up,  evil-smelling  scraps  of  meat. 
"Ah!"  said  he  to  himself .  "  Poisoned,  of  course!  And  as 
the  first  attempt  wouldn't  do,  he  had  to  try  again." 

He  removed  the  meat  carefully  from  the  room,  and  hid  it 
away  for  further  examination.  Poor,  trembling  Mrs.  Wall 
having  by  this  time  returned  to  her  place  in  the  kitchen,  he 
went  in  and  asked  her,  in  a  dry  voice,  if  she  had  heard  any- 
body about  the  place  in  his  absence. 

"  No,  sir,"  quavered  she.     "  Indeed  I  didn't." 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  199 

"  You  were  out,  of  course?" 

"  No,  sir;  at  least,  I'd  only  gone  just  half-way  down  t'  hill 
as  far  as  t'  post-office,  to  get  in  a  pound  of  sugar,  because 
you're  out  of  it,  sir;  and  I  give  you  my  word,  sir,  I'd  never 
ha'  gone  if  I  hadn't  ha'  thought  as  Abel  was  upstairs,  and — " 

"  And  you  came  back  just  a  minute  or  two  before  I  did?" 
'  Yes,  sir;  not  so  very  long." 

"Not  long  at  all,  or  you'd  have  had  the  whole  village  up 
here,  poking  and  prying  into  every  corner,  I  know,"  said  Ned, 
grimly.  "  And  when  you  opened  the  door  you  saw  the  dogs 
lying  as  they  are  lying  now? 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you've  heard  nobody  about?" 

"  No,  sir;  at  least,  no,  not  to-day." 

"  Not  to-day!  Then  you  have  heard  somebody  in  the  place 
since  I've  been  ill?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  not  nobody  to  matter — nobody  at  all.  Only 
one  day  as  I  wur  talking  to  Miss  Denison  from  t'  Hall,  as  wur 
at  t'  door  asking  about  you,  I  wur  pushed  aside  quite  sudden 
like;  and  when  I  looked  it  wur  Parson  Brander. " 

She  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper  as  she  uttered  the  name. 
For  in  spite  of  her  cautious  way  of  putting  it,  Sarah  Wall  felt 
a  decided  suspicion  that  the  Vicar  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  against 
whom  her  prejudice  was  strong,  was  at  the  root  of  this  busi- 
ness. 

"  1  don't  know  where  he  come  from,  sir,"  she  croaked  on, 
rather  mysteriously.  "  But  it  wasn't  through  t'  door,  for  it 
wur  on  t'  chain." 

Ned,  having  got  out  of  her  all  she  had  to  tell,  turned  with  an 
abrupt  nod,  left  the  kitchen,  and  again  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den. Abel  Squires,  who  was  hobbling  up  the  hill  on  his 
crutch,  redoubled  his  pace  when  he  saw  his  master  at  the  gate. 

"  So  ye're  aht,  Ah  see,"  he  called  out,  as  soon  as  he  was 
near  enough.  "  Ah  guessed  how  'twould  be  as  soon  as  ma 
back  wur  turned." 

As  he  drew  nearer  he  saw  by  his  master's  face,  not  only  that 
he  was  greatly  fatigued,  but  that  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened. 

In  a  few  short  sentences  Ned  told  him  the  events  which  had 
occurred  in  his  absence:  his  visit  to  St.  Cuthbert's,  the  finding 
of  the  dogs'  bodies,  and  the  discovery  oE  meat  which  he  be- 
lieved to  be  poisoned. 

"  Wall  tells  me,"  said  he,  "  that  Vernon  Brander  got  into 
the  place  one  day  while  I  was  laid  up. " 

Abel  nodded. 


200  ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWER. 

*'  Reight  enough:  so  he  did.  Got  in  at  t'  ooper  floor  by  t' 
water  boott." 

"  What  reason  did  he  give?" 

"  "Wanted  to  kna\v  heow  mooch  you  knew.  So  Ah  told  him. 
He's  been  going  abaht  loike  a  church-yard  ghost  ever  since. 
Ah  met  'un  just  neow  on  's  way  oop  to  t'  vicarage." 

"  To  the  vicarage?" 

"Ay." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  up  there  now." 

And  he  turned  and  began  to  walk  up  the  hill.  Abel  hopped 
after  him,  assuming  his  most  persuasive  mien. 

"  Doan't  'e,  Mester  Mitchell  —  doan't  'e,"  he  entreated. 
'c  It's  naught  but  cruelty  to  him  as  hasn't  done  it;  an'  as  for 
him  as  has,  you've  got  plenty  in  store  for  him  wi'out  w orriting 
of  him  now. " 

Ned  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  these  remonstrances,  but 
went  on  his  way,  still  closely  attended  by  Abel,  the  length  of 
the  vicarage  garden  wall. 

Abel  redoubled  his  pleadings  as  they  caught  sight  of  the  two 
brothers  and  Mrs.  Brander  walking  in  the  garden. 

"  Look  'e  here,  Mester  Mitchell,"  said  he,  in  a  rough  voice 
that,  plead  as  he  would,  could  get  no  softer,  "  Ah've  kept 
away  from  Eishton  ten  year  fur  to  please  Parson  Vernon, 
'cause  Ah'm  t'  only  chap  as  see  what  happened  that  neight, 
an'  he  wouldn't  trust  me  to  hawd  ma  toongue.  What  Ah 
could  do  fur  ten  year,  couldn't  you  do  fur  a  neight?" 

Still  Ned  walked  stolidly  on,  vouchsafing  no  answer,  until 
the  party  in  the  garden  caught  sight  of  them,  and  the  Vicar 
of  Kishton  came  down  to  the  side  gate  to  meet  them.  As  he 
drew  near,  Abel,  after  one  futile  attempt  to  drag  Ned  bodily 
ajvay,  tried  to  escape  himself.  But  Mr.  Brander  was  too  quick 
and  too  strong  for  him. 

"  Why,  who  have  we  here?"  he  said,  curiously,  seizing 
Squires  by  the  arm,  and  looking  into  his  wooden  face.  "  Isn't 
it  Abel  Squires,  the  man  who  picked  up  my  father's  signet 
ring  on  the  Sheffield  Road?" 

*'  Ay,  sir,"  said  Abel,  very  bashfully,  while  he  persistently 
avoided  meeting  the  vicar's  eye. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  vicar,  good  -  humoredly.  And 
without  noticing  the  lowering  expression  of  Ned's  face,  he 
turned  and  shook  his  hand.  "  Glad  to  see  you  about  again, 
Mr.  Mitchell.  I  must  tell  you  a  story  about  our  friend  here," 
he  continued,  putting  a  kind  hand  on  the  tramp's  shoulder. 
'  Years  ago,  when  I  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy,  my  father 
lost  a  signet  ring  one  night  as  he  was  returning  home  from  a 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  201 

sick-bed.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  thing;  much  too  large  for 
his  finger.  He  never  expected  to  see  it  again;  but  a  fortnight 
afterward  who  should  turn  up  but  Abel  Squires,  inquiring  of 
his  servants  if  anybody  in  the  house  had  lost  a  ring.  He  had 
picked  it  up,  and  having  no  means  of  advertising  his  find,  had 
perseveringly  called  at  house  after  house  on  the  outskirts  ol 
Sheffield  where  he  found  it,  until  he  at  last  got  directed  to  my 
father  as  the  owner.  He  was  so  much  struck  by  the  circum- 
stance that  he  declared  it  should  be  treasured  up  forever  by 
the  head  of  the  family  as  a  reminder  that  the  world  had  con- 
tained at  least  one  ideally  honest  man.'* 

"  You're  t'  head  of  t'  family,  yet  you  don't  wear  it  though, 
parson,"  said  Abel,  glancing  at  his  hands. 

He  had  listened  in  much  confusion  to  the  account,  chang- 
ing from  his  wooden  leg  to  his  sound  one  and  back  again,  and 
looking  as  if  the  vicar's  speech  contained  some  revelation  par- 
ticularly painful  for  him  to  hear. 

The  vicar,  who  had  been  touched  by  his  excessive  modesty, 
was  surprised  at  this  retort. 

"No,  I  don't  wear  it  now,"  he  said,  laughing  genially. 
"  I  did  though,  until  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  it  myself, 
some  years  ago.  It  was  too  large  for  me,  as  it  had  been  for 
my  father,  and  I  never  knew  how  it  had  gone.  And  you  were 
not  about  to  find  it  for  me/' 

"  Kay,  sir,"  was  all  Abel  said,  with  one  shy  glance  at  the 
by-standers. 

They  had  formed  a  strange  group  while  the  vicar's  recital 
lasted.  Each  one  seemed  to  know  that  something  serious  was 
impending,  and  to  listen,  in  silence  not  all  attentive,  to  the 
vicar's  innocently  told  reminiscences.  He  was  the  only  person 
at  ease  in  the  little  circle.  Ned  was  standing  solid  and  square, 
listening  to  Mr.  Brander's  little  story  with  a  contemptuous 
face;  Vernon  Brander,  who  seemed  of  late  to  be  growing  daily 
more  lean,  more  haggard,  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Ned  witn 
an  expression  of  undisguised  apprehension;  while  Mrs.  Bran- 
der, whose  great  black  eyes  were  flashing  with  excitement  to 
which  she  allowed  no  other  vent,  looked  steadily  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  rest  of  the  group,  as  she  stood  a  little  away 
from  them  all,  motionless  and  silent,  like  a  beautiful  statue. 

When  the  vicar's  prattle  had  come  to  an  end,  there  was  a 
pause.  He  seemed  himself  to  become  at  last  aware  that  th» 
minds  about  him  were  occupied  with  some  more  serious  mat- 
ter, and  he  turned  to  Ned  with  a  look  of  inquiry: 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Mr.  Mitchell?"  he  asked.  "  You 
look  less  happy  than  a  man  should  do  who  has  just  been  re- 


202  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

leased  from  the  confinement  of  a  sick-bed.  Can  I  adrise  you 
or  counsel  you  in  any  way?  Would  you  like  to  come  into  my 
study?" 

Ned  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  him  like  a  bull  in  the 
arena. 

"  No/'  he  said,  savagely,  "  the  garden  will  do  for  what  I 
have  to  say.  It's  only  this:  My  blood -hounds  have  been  poi- 
soned " — a  little  shiver  of  intense  excitement  seemed  to  run 
through  the  group — "  and  by  the  same  hand  that  killed  my 
sister.  Now  I  give  the  man  who  did  both  those  acts  till  this 
time  to-morrow  to  confess  publicly  that  he's  been  a  great 
hypocrite  for  ten  years,  with  good  words  on  his  lips  and  bad 
thoughts  in  his  heart.  But  if  in  those  four-and-twenty  hours 
he  don't  confess,  then  he  shall  be  buried  at  the  country's  ex- 
pense before  the  year's  out." 

There  was  dead  silence  after  this  speech,  which  Ned  deliv- 
ered, not  in  his  usual  coarse,  loud  tones,  but  in  husky,  spas- 
modic jerks,  and  with  the  manner  of  a  man  bitterly  in  earnest. 
The  vicar  listened  with  great  attention;  Abel  Squires  seemed 
to  wish,  but  not  to  dare,  to  move  away;  Vernon  shook  from 
head  to  foot  with  high  nervous  excitement;  while  Mrs.  Bran- 
der  moved  to  the  side  of  her  brother-in-law,  and  stole  her  hand 
within  his  arm. 

Not  a  look,  not  a  movement  was  lost  on  Ned,  whose  features 
suddenly  broke  up  into  a  grim  and  horrible  smile  as  he  noted 
the  action  of  the  lady.  It  was  a  smile  of  cunning,  of  mock- 
ery. But  Mr.  Brander  had  treated  him  with  dislike  and  con- 
tempt. 

"  You  think,"  said  the  Vicar  of  Eishton  at  last,  "  that  the 
man  who  poisoned  your  dogs  was  the  same  who  made  away 
with  your  sister?" 

"  I  don't  think;  I  know." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  Mitchell.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  you  feel  the  latter  loss  the  more  acutely  of  the 
two." 

"  It  showed,"  returned  Ned,  doggedly,  "  that  the  fellow  is 
no  better-minded  now  than  he  was  then." 

"  You  might  say  so  if  they  were  human  beings  whose  lives 
he  had  taken,"  said  the  vicar,  continuing  his  gentle  remon- 
strance. "  As  they  were  only  dogs,  1  am  inclined  to  take  a 
more  lenient  view;  while  admitting  that  this  unknown  per- 
son—" 

"  No,  not  unknown,"  interpolated  Ned. 

The  vicar  went  on  without  noticing  the  interruption. 

" — had  no  right  either  to  trespass  on  your  premises  or  de- 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB.  203 

stroy  your  dogs,  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  state  of  mind 
of  a  desperate  man,  who  believes,  rightly  or  wrongly,  that 
these  animals  will  be  used  to  discover  his  guilt. " 

"  Well,  vicar,"  said  Ned,  who  had  been  staring  straight  into 
the  clergyman's  face  with  a  cynical  smile,  "  I've  said  my  say; 
that's  what  I  came  here  for.  Now  it's  done,  I'll  wish  you, 
and  your  good  lady,  and  Mr.  Vernon  there,  a  very  good-night." 

The  vicar  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night.  You  will  not  be  offended  with  me  for  saying 
that  I  hope  Heaven  will  soften  your  heart,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  in  the  gentle,  almost  apologetic  tones  which  he  always 
used  when  touching  upon  religious  matters. 

"  No,  I'm  not  offended,"  said  Ned,  in  a  hard,  mocking 
voice. 

"  And  will  you  come  to  our  hay-making  to-morrow?"  Mr. 
Brander  continued  in  a  lighter  tone.  "  It  will  be  a  very  sim- 
ple sort  of  festivity,  but  it  may  serve  as  a  change  from  your 
hermit-like  solitude  and  your  gloomy  reflections." 

Ned  began  to  shake  his  head  rather  contemptuously,  mut- 
tering something  rather  surlily  about  being  "  too  old  to  pick 
buttercups. " 

"  Mr.  Williams,  of  the  Towers,  will  be  here,"  went  on  the 
vicar,  as  pleasantly  as  ever.  **  He  is  exceedingly  anxious  to 
make  your  acquaintance. " 

The  expression  of  Ned's  face  changed. 

"  Is  that  the  Mr.  Williams  who  has  been  bothering  so  about 
repairing  the  old  church  down  there — Saint  Cuthbert's?"  he 
asked,  with  affected  carelessness. 

And  the  vicar's  expression  changed  also. 

"  I  believe  he  did  talk  about  it  at  one  time;  but  as  my 
brother  objected  to  it,  he  had  to  give  up  the  idea,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  glancing  at  Vernon,  who  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Brander. 

"  Ah!"  said  Ned,  with  a  look  down  at  his  boots  and  a  nod. 
"  Yes,  I'll  come,  vicar,  and  thank  you  kindly  for  your  invita- 
tion," he  said,  more  graciously.  "  I  can't  make  hay,  but  I'll 
be  most  happy  to  stand  about  and  look  pretty,"  he  added, 
with  a  short  laugh. 

Raising  his  hat  ceremoniously  to  Mrs.  Brander,  whom  he 
admired,  and  whose  indifferently  concealed  dislike  therefore 
irritated  him,  Ned  Mitchell  turned  on  his  heel  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  Vernon,  and  made  his  way  down  the  hill 
to  his  cottage,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Abel  Squires,  who  had 
bade  "  t'  gentle  fowk  "  an  humble  and  bashful  farewell,  and 


204  ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TO  WEE. 

hastened  to  the  support  of  his  patient,  upon  whom  the  fatigue 
and  excitement  of  the  evening  had  begun  to  tell  heavily. 

Solemnly  and  almost  in  silence,  Meredith  Brauder  and  his 
wife  then  parted  from  Vernon,  who  took  his  lonely  way  over 
the  fields  in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement  so  acute  that  on 
reaching  St.  Cuthbert's  Vicarage  he  was  highly  feverish,  with 
a  burning  head,  hot,  dry  hands,  and  a  mouth  that  seemed 
parched  and  withered.  He  lay  awake  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  night.  Next  morning,  his  old  housekeeper,  not  hearing 
him  rise  as  usual,  went  up  to  his  room,  and  found  him  in  a 
restless,  uneasy  sleep.  Seeing  that  something  was  wrong  with 
him,  and  deciding  that  it  was  the  result  of  overwork,  Mrs. 
Warmington  applied  a  characteristically  rough-and-ready 
remedy.  She  ransacked  his  wardrobe,  selecting  everything 
that  was  fit  to  wear,  and  quitted  the  room  as  softly  as  she  had 
entered  it,  leaving  pinned  to  his  pillow  the  following  note: 

"I  see  you  have  had  no  sleep  and  are  unwell.  So  1  have 
taken  away  your  clothes  and  locked  the  door.  If  you  are  ready 
to  promise  to  stay  in  bed  all  the  morning,  and  not  to  go  out 
to-day,  knock  three  times,  and  I  will  bring  up  your  breakfast/' 

When  he  woke  up,  Vernon  gave  the  three  knocks,  after  a 
very  little  hesitation.  He  felt  so  ill  that  he  was  glad  of  an  ex- 
cuse to  spend  an  idle  day — glad  too  that  in  this  way  he  could 
escape  the  ordeal  of  the  hay-making  at  his  brother's,  and  a 
meeting  with  Olivia  Denison.  For,  haunted  as  he  was  by  the 
remembrance  of  her  gentle  touch,  of  her  softly  uttered  words 
of  sympathy  as  he  sat  beside  her  by  Mrs.  Warmington's  fire- 
side, he  felt  that  another  cold  look,  another  frigid  bow,  like 
those  she  had  given  him  on  their  last  meeting,  would  be  a 
torture  more  than  he  could  bear. 

Vernon  Brander  was  far  too  ignorant  of  the  peculiarities  of 
the  feminine  character  to  know  the  significance  of  that  cold- 
ness; he  thought  that  it  meant  in  her  what  it  meant  in  him, 
a  firm  determination  that  all  sentiment  between  them  should 
be  forever  at  an  end.  While,  as  every  one  knows,  if  that  had 
been  the  cause  she  would  have  been  gentle,  tender,  anxious  to 
soften  the  cruel  blow  she  was  preparing  for  him,  anxious  also 
that  there  should,  after  the  parting,  be  a  little  sentiment  left. 
As  it  was,  poor  Olivia,  on  her  side,  was  suffering  a  good  many 
torments.  While  never  allowing  herself  to  believe  the  worst 
she  heard  against  Vernon  Brander,  her  common  sense  was  con- 
tinually warring  with  her  feelings,  and  calling  her  all  sorts  of 
unflattering  names  for  her  prejudice  in  his  favor.  She  hated 
and  despised  him,  she  loved  and  respected  him,  all  in  a 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  205 

breath.  She  resolved  never  to  see  him  again,  she  determined 
to  encourage  him  in  spite  of  all  opposition,  in  the  course  of  the 
same  day.  But  the  value  of  the  former  resolution  may  be 
gauged  by  the  fact  that  she  made  it  very  strongly  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  hay-making,  and  was  bitterly  disappointed  when,  on 
arriving  with  her  father  and  step-mother  at  the  big  field  by 
the  church-yard,  where  the  tent  had  been  put  up,  she  learned 
from  little  Kate  that  he  had  sent  word  to  say  he  could  not 
come. 

But  Olivia  was  not  to  go  without  admirers.  Approaching 
the  tent  as  she  came  out  of  it  was  Fred  Williams,  dressed  in  a 
light  gray  suit  of  a  check  so  large  that  there  was  only  room  for 
one  square  and  a  half  across  his  narrow  little  chest,  a  very 
pale-brown  hat,  and  a  salmon-colored  tie.  He  greeted  Mr. 
Denison  effusively,  and  asked  Olivia  if  he  might  get  her  a  cup 
of  tea. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  she,  coldly. 

But  her  father,  surprised  and  displeased  at  her  tone,  inter- 
fered. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  sure  you  would  like  a  cup  of  tea/' 
said  he.  "  Take  her  to  the  tent,  Fred,  and  look  after  her." 

Then,  as  the  young  man,  who  looked  delighted  at  her  dis- 
comfiture, turned  to  shake  hands  with  her  step-mother,  Mr. 
Denison  whispered  to  his  daughter,  in  as  peremptory  a  tone  as 
he  ever  used  to  her: 

"  You  mustn't  put  on  these  airs,  Olivia.  Young  Williams 
is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  has  obliged  me  considerably  more 
than  once.  I  insist  on  your  being  civil  to  him." 

Olivia  turned  white,  and  bit  her  lips.  A  suspicion  of  the 
truth,  that  her  father  was  under  monetary  obligations  to  this 
wretched  little  stripling,  flashed  into  her  mind.  She  waited 
very  quietly,  but  with  a  certain  erect  carriage  of  the  head 
which  promised  ill  for  the  treatment  Fred  would  receive  at  her 
hands.  He,  however,  was  not  the  man  to  be  scrupulous  about 
the  way  in  which  he  attained  his  ends.  He  trotted  beside  her 
to  the  tent  in  a  state  of  great  elation. 

"Awfully  slow  these  bun  scuffles,  ain't  they?"  he  said  in 
his  most  insinuating  tones.  "  I  shouldn't  have  come  at  all  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  chance  of  meeting — some  one  1  wanted 
to  see." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  most  significant  look;  but  un- 
fortunately Olivia,  who  was  considerably  taller  than  he,  was 
looking  over  his  head  at  some  fresh  arrivals. 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  absently. 

Fred  reddened;  that  is  to  say,  a  faint  tint,  like  the  color  in 


206  ST.  CUTHBEET'S  TO  WEE. 

his  tie,  appeared  for  a  moment  in  his  cheeks,  and  then  left 
them  as  yellow  as  before.  He  tried  again.  She  should  look 
at  him;  it  didn't  matter  how,  but  she  should  look. 

"  Those  country  girls  look  at  me  as  if  they'd  never  seen 
anything  like  this  get-up  before.  It's  the  proper  thing  down 
in  the  south,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  should  think  so— on  Margate  '  excursionists,'  "  answered 
Olivia,  briefly. 

Fred  was  quite  unmoved. 

"  Now  what  would  your  father  say  if  he  heard  you?"  he 
asked,  good-humoredly.  "  You  know  he  told  you  to  be  civil. 
Ho,  yes,  I've  sharp  ears  enough — always  catch  up  anything  I 
want  to  hear." 

Olivia  said  nothing  to  this,  and  presently  he  went  on,  in  a 
persuasive  tone: 

"  You  know  it's  worse  that  wasting  your  time  to  be  rude  to 
me,  because  I'm  not  a  bad  chap  to  people  I  like,  and  to  peo- 
ple I  don't  like  I  can  do  awfully  nasty  turns." 

"  Oh,  1  don't  doubt  your  power  of  making  yourself  unpleas- 
ant," said  Olivia,  quietly. 

Still  Fred  Williams  only  chuckled.  They  had  by  this  time 
reached  the  teat,  and  he  gave  her  a  chair  with  a  flourish  of 
satisfaction. 

"  There,  now  you  must  look  up  to  me  to  fire  off  your  spite- 
ful little  shots,  instead  of  down  at  me  as  if  1  were  a  worm  or  a 
beetle.  It's  not  many  men  of  my  size,  mind  you,  that  would 
walk  with  a  girl  as  tall  as  you — it  puts  a  fellow  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. And  as  your  six-footers  are  not  too  plentiful  in  these 
parts,  it  would  be  wiser  of  you  to  make  your  peace  with  the 
little  ones." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Olivia,  looking  up  at  him  gravely, 
"  that  I  could  get  on  very  well  without  either  six-footers  or 
four-feet-sixers." 

"  That's  a  nasty  cut.  There's  not  many  fellows  would 
stand  that,"  said  the  irrepressible  one.  "But  there,  I  tell 
you  there's  nothing  1  wouldn't  put  up  with  from  you.  I  sup- 
pose you  won't  insult  my  guv'nor  if  I  introduce  him  to  you," 
he  continued,  glancing  toward  a  corner  of  the  tent  where  the 
elder  Mr.  Williams  was  engaged  in  animated  talk  with  Ned 
Mitchell. 

"Certainly  not:"  answered  Olivia,  "I  am  told  by  every 
one  that  you  could  scarcely  be  told  for  father  and  son. ' ' 

This  was  true.  Mr.  Williams,  though  he  was  not  free  from 
the  faults  of  the  parvenu,  was  ostentatious  in  his  charities  and 
respectful  toward  wealth,  had  a  handsome  person  and  a  digni- 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  20? 

fied  carriage,  and  was  in  every  way  his  son's  superior.  He 
had  been  most  anxious  to  make  Ned  Mitchell's  acquaintance, 
feeling  that  in  this  man,  who  had  begun  with  little  and  by  his 
own  exertions  had  made  it  much,  he  should  meet  with  a  con- 
genial nature.  And  so  it  proved.  Ned  having  the  same  feel- 
ing toward  him,  they  had  become,  at  their  first  interview,  if 
not  friends,  at  least  mutually  well-disposed  acquaintances. 

When  Fred  interrupted  their  tete-a-tete,  they  were  deep  in  a 
•onversation  they  found  so  interesting  that  Mr.  Williams,  in 
reply  to  his  son's  request  that  he  would  come  and  be  intro- 
duced to  a  lady,  waved  him  away,  saying,  "  Presently,  my  boy, 
presently." 

He  came  back,  laughing  at  his  father's  earnestness. 

"  He  and  that  colonist  fellow  are  so  thick  already  that 
there's  no  separatin'  'em, "  he  said  to  Olivia.  ' '  They're  at  it, 
hammer  and  tongs,  about  the  old  tower  down  at  Saint  Cuth- 
bert's,  and  as  the  vicar  has  just  come  and  shoved  his  little  oar 
in,  I  expect  they'll  be  at  it  till  breakfast-time." 

"  The  tower  of  Saint  Cuthbert's!"  exclaimed  Olivia,  rising 
hastily  from  her  chair.  "  What  are  they  saying  about  that?" 

Fred,  who  noticed  everything,  saw  how  keen  was  the  interest 
she  showed. 

"  Yes.  You  know  my  guv'nor  was  hot  on  building  a  new 
tower  to  the  place,  and  paying  for  the  repair  of  it.  He  likes 
things  brand-new,  does  the  guv'nor,  and  he  likes  tablets  and 
paragraphs  with  '  Ee-erected  by  the  generosity  of  F.  S.  Will- 
iams, Esquire,  of  the  Towers,'  on  'em.  And  he  was  put  off 
it,  I  don't  exactly  know  how.  So  Mitchell's  working  him  up 
to  it  again." 

"  Since  your  father  won't  come  to  me,  you  shall  take  me  to 
him,"  said  Olivia,  brightly,  though  her  lips  were  quivering. 

Fred,  still  watching  her  carefully,  noticed  this  also.  As 
they  crossed  the  floor  of  the  tent,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
straining  her  ears  to  catch  what  she  could  of  the  talk  of  the 
three  men.  For  Mr.  Meredith  Brander  had  now  joined  the 
other  two,  and  was  taking  the  chief  share  of  the  subject  under 
discussion.  This  was  no  longer  St.  Cuthbert's  tower,  but  the 
recent  loss  which  the  colonist  had  sustained  by  the  poisoning 
of  his  hounds. 

"  My  own  impression,"  the  vicar  was  saying,  in  tones  of 
conviction,  "  is  that  you  must  have  caused  their  death  your- 
self during  your  sleep. " 

"How  do  you  make  that  out,  vicar?"  asked  Ned,  very 
quietly. 


208  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Since  that  outburst  of  fury  the  evening  before  he  had  been 
very  subdued — almost  amiable. 

"  Why,  I  can  not  conceive  any  motive  strong  enough  to  in- 
duce anybody  else  to  make  away  with  them.  If  they  were 
really  dangerous  to  some  one's  secret,  poisoning  them  was  too 
suspicious  an  act.  Besides,  my  brother — I  mean  the  church- 
yard of  Saint  Cuthbert's  has  just  been  laid  out  as  a  garden,  and 
the  wall  has  been  fringed  with  broken  glass  to  keep  out  all 
unauthorized  intruders.  Now  why  should  a  man  kill  your 
dogs?" 

"  I  have  my  own  ideas  as  to  the  reason/'  said  Ned.  Then, 
after  a  short  pause,  he  added:  "  You  see,  the  poisoning  of  the 
hounds  led  to  a  delay.  Now,  a  hunted  criminal  lives  by 
delays." 

"  Hunted  criminal!"  Poor  Olivia  echoed  these  terrible 
words  below  her  breath.  The  very  sound  of  them  blanched 
her  cheeks  and  seemed  to  check  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

It  was  again  Ned  who  spoke: 

'  Tell  me,  vicar,  what  you  mean  by  suggesting  that  1  poi- 
soned my  hounds  in  my  sleep?" 

"  Don't  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Brander,  "  how  an  active  man 
forced  into  inaction  will  brood  over  an  idea  until  it  is  never 
out  of  his  brain?  I  imagine  that  you,  moved  as  you  certainly 
were  by  fears  for  the  safety  of  your  dogs  while  you  were  ill, 
got  these  fears  so  strongly  in  your  mind  that  at  last  you  got 
up  one  night,  and  with  your  own  hands  did  what  it  was  always 
in  your  mind  that  some  one  else  would  do — laid  about  the 
poison  which  the  dogs  took  as  soon  as  they  by  some  means  got 
loose." 

"  Dear  me!  Very  ingenious  theory — very  ingenious!"  said 
Mr.  Williams. 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  went  on  the  vicar,  modestly,  "  that  the 
idea  would  have  come  into  my  head  if  it  had  not  been  that  in 
my  own  family  there  have  been  marvelous  instances  of  som- 
nambulism. An  ancestor  of  mine,  a  very  energetic  man  who 
loved  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  had  been  ordered  a  rest  from 
preaching  by  his  doctor.  Well,  I  assure  you  that  after  obey- 
ing this  injunction  three  months,  he  got  up  one  night,  got  the 
church  keys,  let  himself  in,  and  was  discovered  there  by  his 
wife  in  the  pulpit,  preaching  a  sermon  in  his  dressing-gown 
and  slippers!  And  there  have  been  numberless  other  instances 
in  our  family — some  within  this  century." 

"  Dear  me,  that  is  singular  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Williams. 

"  A  very  high-spirited  family  yours,  vicar,"  said  Ned,  who 
had  not  moved  a  muscle  during  this  recital,  "  and  the  spirit  is 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  209 

sure  to  peep  out  sooner  or  later.  You,  I  think,  though  you'll 
excuse  my  saying  so,  are  about  the  only  one  of  the  bunch  that 
hasn't  let  it  peep  out  rather  discreditably. " 

"  Perhaps  my  sins  are  all  to  come/'  said  the  vicar  with  a 
jolly  laugh. 

And,  catching  sight  of  the  two  young  people  who  were  wait- 
ing fora  hearing,  Mr.  Brander  himself  introduced  Olivia  Deui- 
son  to  old  Mr.  Williams,  and  left  the  group  to  join  his  other 
guests. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  haymaking  in  the  glebe  field  of  Rishton  Vicarage  was 
an  annual  affair,  an  institution  of  Meredith  Brander's  own, 
dating  from  the  young  days  of  his  reign.  It  had  been  at  its 
origin  a  thoroughly  Radical  institution,  a  freak  of  the  then 
very  youthful  vicar,  who  had  not  yet  quite  dropped  all  the  wild 
ideas  for  the  reconstruction  of  society  of  his  university  days. 
Rich  and  poor,  gentle  and  simple,  an  invitation  had  been  ex- 
tended to  all;  the  glebe  field  was  to  be  the  scene  of  such  an 
harmonious  commingling  of  class  and  class  as  had  not  been 
dreamed  of  since  the  dim  days  of  Feudalism.  For  a  year  or 
two  both  the  villagers  and  the  richer  class  were  represented; 
the  former  sparsely,  it  is  true.  But  there  was  no  commin- 
gling. Then  the  villagers,  not  quite  understanding  the  vicar's 
idea,  began  to  have  a  suspicion  that,  besides  being  somewhat 
bored  and  bewildered  by  the  entertainment  and  the  necessity 
for  putting  on  "  company  manners,"  they  were  being  laughed 
at;  and  thenceforth  they  stayed  away  altogether.  So  that  the 
annual  haymaking  had  now  become  what  Mr.  Brander  called 
"  a  mere  commonplace  omnium  gatherum,"  where  the  lowest 
class  represented  was  that  of  well-to-do  farmers,  whose  wives 
and  daughters  having  replaced  the  straightforward  rusticity  of 
half  a  century  ago  for  a  veneer  of  fashion  and  refinement, 
were  tiresome  guests,  captious,  self-assertive,  and  intolerable. 

Among  the  most  prominent  members  of  this  last  class  were 
the  two  daughters  of  John  Oldshaw.  Despising  their  shy, 
good-hearted  brother  Mat  as  much  as  they  did  their  coarse- 
mannered  father,  they  prattled  of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  last 
opera,  of  the  newest  shape  of  sunshade,  of  the  most  recently 
published  novel,  uneasily  anxious  to  show  that  they  were 
abreast  of  the  times.  They  hated  Olivia  Denison  for  her  easy 
superiority;  and  while  indignant  with  their  brother  for  admir- 
ing her,  they  were  still  more  indignant  at  the  knowledge  that 


210  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

he  was  too  much  her  inferior  for  her  to  treat  him  with  any- 
thing but  kindness. 

Olivia,  who  was  always  scrupulously  courteous  to  these 
young  ladies,  shook  hands  with  them  as  she  left  the  tent  with 
her  persistent  admirer,  Fred  Williams,  who,  with  little  at- 
tempt at  concealment,  tried  to  draw  her  away  from  the  farmer's 
daughters. 

"  How  charming  Mrs.  Brander  is  looking  to-day!"  said 
the  elder,  in  the  loud,  unpleasant  voice  which  shivered  in  a 
moment  all  her  pretensions  to  refinement.  "  She  reminds 
me  more  of  Lady  Grisdale  every  time  I  see  her." 

Lady  Grisdale  was  a  fashionable  beauty,  whose  photograph, 
together  with  those  of  the  Guernsey  Eose  and  Mrs.  Carnaby 
East,  adorned  Miss  Oldshaw's  drawing-room  mantel-piece  in 
a  plush  frame. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Olivia,  she  is  like  the  portraits  of  Lady 
Grisdale.  How  is  your  brother?  Isn't  he  coming  here  to- 
day?" 

The  Misses  Oldshaw  disliked  any  allusion  to  their  brother, 
who,  they  considered,  did  them  little  credit.  And  to  hear 
him  mentioned  by  Olivia  Denison  was  especially  galling.  It 
seemed  to  them  to  signify,  what  indeed  was  the  truth,  that  she 
ranked  Mat,  with  his  rough  speech  and  shy,  awkward  ways, 
above  themselves,  with  all  their  pretensions.  Miss  Oldshaw 
therefore  answered  with  a  shrill  tartness  which  surprised  Olivia, 
who  had  certainly  no  wish  to  offend  her: 

"  Oh,  he's  not  coming  here.  His  tastes  don't  lie  in  the 
direction  of  either  nice  people  or  nice  amusements." 

"  Indeed!  I  should  have  thought  they  would  when  he's  so 
nice  himself. " 

"  Oh,  of  course  niceness  is  a  matter  of  taste,"  said  Miss 
Oldshaw,  with  an  affected  laugh.  "  Perhaps  you  would  con- 
sider the  person  he  has  gone  to  see  nice." 

'''  Very  likely,"  said  Olivia,  coolly. 

"  Dear  me,"  interrupted  the  second  sister,  with  a  percepti- 
ble sneer,  "  you  forget  that  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  may  be  a 
friend  of  Miss  Denison's. " 

"If  it  is  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  whom  Mat  has  gone  to  see,  I 
don't  think  he  has  chosen  his  pleasure  badly.  At  least  he  is 
in  pleasanter  society  than  we  all  have  the  fortune  to  meet 
here." 

And  Olivia,  who  had  remained  very  quiet  during  this  dis- 
agreeable colloquy,  turned  away,  while  her  companion  burst 
into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter,  and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at 


ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWEB.  211 

the  sisters,  remarked  in  a  voice  which  they  were  intended  to 
hear: 

"  Why  does  Mrs.  Brander  invite  those  people?  Everybody 
knows  they  were  both  sweet  on  Parson  Longface  until  they 
found  it  was  no  go." 

Olivia  made  no  answer  to  this  graceful  remark.  She  was 
standing  close  to  the  hedge  which  bounded  the  field  on  the 
side  nearest  to  the  village.  The  trees  grew  thickly  outside, 
and  even  at  five  o'clock  the  sun  was  strong  enough  to  make 
the  shelter  of  the  overhanging  branches  welcome.  The  de- 
voted Fred  had  put  into  her  hands  a  very  fanciful  little  hay- 
rake;  but  instead  of  amusing  herself  by  turning  over  the  sweet- 
scented  hay  which  strewed  the  field  all  round  her,  she  only 
drew  the  rake  listlessly  along  the  ground  with  an  air  of  being 
a  thousand  miles  away. 

"I'm  afraid  I  bore  you,"  said  Fred,  at  last,  in  an  offended 
tone,  finding  that  all  his  conversational  efforts  failed  to  wake 
the  least  sparkle  of  interest  in  her  eyes;  "  I  should  have 
thought  this  sort  of  thing  would  have  been  just  what  you 
would  like;  wants  such  a  lot  of  energy,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  answered  Olivia,  dreamingly;  "  it  wants  too  much 
energy  to  be  wasted  on  play,  when  one  has  serious  things  to 
think  about." 

"  Serious  things!"  echoed  Fred,  pricking  up  his  ears,  and 
rushing  at  this  opening.  "  Yes,  rye  got  a  lot  of  serious 
things  to  think  about  too — one  thing  jolly  serious.  1  say/'  he 
went  on,  getting  rather  nervous,  "  I'm  glad  you  take  things 
seriously;  1  like  a  girl  who  can  be  serious." 

"Do  you?"  asked  she,  rather  absently.  "I  should  have 
thought  you  liked  a  girl  who  could  be  lively." 

"  Well,  yes;  I  like  'em  both.  I  mean,  I  like  one  who  can 
be  both — or,  or — " 

"  Both  who  can  be  one,  perhaps,"  suggested  Olivia,  laugh- 
ing. 

She  had  had  to  stave  off  proposals  before  from  men  whom 
she  was  anxious  to  save  from  unnecessary  pain.  But  with 
this  grotesque  little  caricature  of  an  admirer,  she  felt  no  sen- 
timent deeper  than  a  hope  that  he  would  not  be  silly.  In- 
significant as  he  seemed  to  her,  however,  she  made  a  great 
mistake  in  despising  him,  and  in  forgetting  that  a  small,  mean 
nature  is  very  much  more  dangerous  than  a  nobler  one.  So 
that  while  she  was  innocently  trying  to  avoid  the  annoyance 
of  his  love-making  with  light  words  and  laughter,  he  was 
growing  every  moment  more  doggedly  bent  on  doing  her  the 


212  ST.     CUTHBEKT  S    TOWER. 

honor  of  making  known  his  admiration.  Although  the  possi- 
bility of  a  refusal  had  not  occurred  to  him,  he  felt  nervous,  as 
he  would  have  felt  with  no  other  woman. 

"  I  say,  now,  be  serious  a  moment,  can't  you?  Or  I  shall 
think  I  paid  you  too  great  a  compliment  just  now." 

"  As  I  am  not  used  to  compliments,  perhaps  it  got  into  my 
head." 

"  Oh,  of  course  1  know  you  have  had  plenty  of  fools  dan- 
gling about  you  and  saying  a  lot  of  things  they  don't  mean — " 

"  So  that  one  more  or  less  hardly  counts,"  suggested  Olivia, 
laughing. 

He  would  not  be  angry  even  then.  He  thought  if  he  affected 
to  drop  the  subject  he  should  soon  bring  her  to  reason;  so  he 
said:  "  Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  that's  your  way  of  looking  at  it, 
there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

But  she  took  him  at  his  word,  and,  with  just  a  nod  of  as- 
sent to  his  last  remark,  ran  to  the  hedge  with  a  cry:  "  There's 
Mat!"  as  she  caught  sight  of  Farmer  Oldshaw's  son  standing 
under  the  trees. 

Fred  Williams  looked  after  her  with  an  ugly  expression  on 
his  little  yellow  face. 

"  Fancy  my  not  being  common  enough  for  her,  by  Jove!" 
was  his  modest  reflection  as  he  saw  her  shake  hands  heartily 
with  the  young  man. 

Olivia  with  a  woman's  quick  perception,  had  known  at  once 
that  Mat  had  something  of  importance  to  tell  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Mat?"  she  asked,  anxiously,  as  they  shook 
hands. 

"  Mester  Vernon;  he's  very  bad  wi*  t'  fever,"  said  he,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Ah  allers  weaite  at  corner  o'  t'  long  meadow  o' 
Thursdays,  an'  walk  wi'  him  as  far  as  Lower  Copse,  where  he 
goes  to  's  meeting.  An'  to-deay  he  didn't  coom,  so  Ah  knew 
summat  wur  wrong,  an'  Ah  went  to  's  home,  an'  Ah  saw  him. 
An'  Ah  thowt  Ah'd  let  ye  knaw,  Miss  Olivia,  so  Ah  coom  here 
to  tell  ye. " 

Olivia  had  very  little  shyness  with  Mat;  he  knew  her  secret, 
and  he  too  loved  Vernon  Brander  most  loyally.  She  thanked 
him  in  very  few  words,  but  with  a  look  of  gratitude  in  her 
eyes  which  stirred  in  the  young  man  feelings  of  pain  and  pleas- 
ure she  never  guessed  at. 

"  I  shall  manage  to  get  away  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  said. 

' '  If  you're  goin'  to  see  Mester  Vernon,  you'll  let  me  see  ye 
seafe  across  t*  fields?" 

'  Yes;  1  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will." 

With  the  rapidity  of  a  butterfly,  in  order  to  avoid  the  un- 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWEK.  213 

lucky  Fred  Williams,  Olivia  sped  across  the  scattered  hay  to 
the  tent  where  she  had  left  Ned  Mitchell  and  Mr.  Williams 
the  elder.  They  were  conversing  as  earnestly  as  ever,  and 
certain  words  which  fell  upon  the  girl's  ears  as  she  stood  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  of  catching  Ned's  attention  showed  her  that 
they  were  still  on  the  old  subject. 

"  You  will  scarcely  believe  me,  Mr.  Mitchell,  when  I  assure 
you  that  nothing  but  the  dissuasions  of  Mr.  Meredith  Brander 
and  his  brother  have  prevented  my  doing  it  long  before. 
However,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  put  up  with  this 
sort  of  thing  any  longer.  I  have  no  doubt  their  motives  were 
good — perfectly  good.  But  they  are  certainly  mistaken  in 
letting  a  private  fad  for  antiquities  interfere  with  the  comfort 
of  the  parishioners. " 

"  And  they  won't  find  on  every  bush  a  parishioner  rich 
enough  and  generous  enough  to  rebuild  a  church  at  his  own 
expense,"  added  Ned. 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps  not,"  allowed  Mr.  Williams,  modestly. 
"  Anyhow,  I'll  get  Lord  Stannington's  permission  at  once, 
and  the  new  Saint  Cuthbert's  tower  shall  be  an  object  of  ad- 
miration in  the  neighborhood  before  the  winter  comes." 

Ned  Mitchell  was  satisfied;  he  had  sowed  the  seed  well. 
Having  now  leisure  to  look  round  him,  he  perceived  that 
Olivia,  standing  by  herself,  with  her  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon 
him,  was  waiting  for  speech  with.  him.  With  her  feminine 
grace,  her  high  spirit  and  her  devotion,  she  was  a  girl  after 
his  own  heart;  what  little  of  amiability  there  was  in  his  char- 
acter always  appeared  in  his  face  and  manner  when  he  ad- 
dressed her. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  pleading  voice,  as 
he  nodded  to  Mr.  Williams  and  walked  out  of  the  tent  with 
her,  "  I  want  to  ask  you  not  to  be  hard." 

"Too  late — too  late  by  fifteen  years,  Miss  Denison,"  said 
he,  not  harshly,  however.  "  But  what  particular  proof  of 
hardness  have  I  given  you  just  now?" 

"  You  know,"  said  she,  tremulously;  "  the  new  tower — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  tower — " 

Ned  Mitchell  stopped  short,  and  made  her  turn  face  to  face 
with  him. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  young  lady,"  said  he,  "  that  you  haven't 
much  faith  in  your  lover." 

"  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  is  not  my  lover,"  said  she,  blushing. 

"  Not  to  the  extent  of  having  asked  you  to  name  the  happy 
day,  perhaps.  But  whether  you  confess  it  or  not,  I  know  that 


214  ST.   CFTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

if  Vernon  Brander  were  free  to  marry,  he  might  have  you  for 
the  asking." 

"  Well,  yes,  he  might,"  said  poor  Olivia,  raising  her  head 
proudly  one  moment,  and  the  next  letting  it  fall  in  confusion 
and  shame.  "  And  I  confess  1  don't  feel  sure  whether  he  has 
done  this  dreadful  thing  or  not;  and — and  that  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  if  he  had.  And  it's  because  I  don't  feel 
sure  that  I'm  come  to  beg  you  not  to  have  Saint  Cuthbert's 
tower  touched.  And  I've  just  heard  that  he's  ill,  and  I'm 
very  miserable  about  it.  There,  there — now  I  think  I've  hu- 
miliated myself  enough  to  you." 

They  were  in  the  open  field,  with  young  men  and  maidens 
on  either  side  making  more  or  less  shallow  pretenses  at  hay- 
making. Olivia  could  not  indulge  the  inclination  that 
prompted  her  to  burst  into  a  rage  of  passionate  tears.  But 
she  was  almost  blinded  by  the  effort  to  keep  them  back;  and 
Ned  Mitchell  had  to  guide  her  steps  between  the  hay-cocks, 
which  he  did  gently  enough. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  could  only  express 
feeling  by  jerks;  "  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  There's  nobody 
I  wouldn't  sooner  hurt,  I  think.  You're  a  brave  girl.  I  like 
you.  I  approve  of  you.  Hold  your  tongue,  and  I'll  promise 
you  something. " 

The  last  admonition  was  unnecessary;  she  was  quiet  enough. 

"  I  give  you  my  word.  Now,  mind,  you're  not  to  shout 
out!"  She  shook  her  head.  "  I  give  you  my  word  no  harm 
shall  come  to — somebody." 

"  Mr.  Vernon  Brander?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Mitchell,  you  are  good,  then,  after  all!"  she 
said,  with  naive  earnestness  and  gratitude. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  But  I  do  keep  my  word.  He's 
ill,  you  say?" 

"  Mat  Oldshaw  has  just  told  me  that  he  is  in  a  fever." 

"•  And  you  are  going  to  see  him?  What  would  your  father 
say?" 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  must;  I  must.  He  has  no  friends  to 
visit  him." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  has.  Mark  my  words:  as  soon  as  she  hears  of 
it,  his  sister-in-law  will  fly  to  his  side." 

Olivia  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself  with  a  shiver  at  these 
words.  Her  warm-hearted  outburst  of  grateful  confidence  was 
over. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  imply?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"  Nothing;  nothing  but  just  what  I  say.     Yon  may  tell 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  215 

Vernon  that  I  am  coming  this  evening  to  look  after  him. 
Here  you  are.  You  can  slip  through  this  gate  and  be  off  un- 
der the  trees  and  down  through  the  village.  And  I'll  make 
up  a  story  for  your  step-mother. " 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her,  and  let  her  through.  Olivia 
scarcely  dared  to  believe  that  he  would  keep  his  promise  of 
doing  no  harm  to  Vernon;  still,  his  kindness  to  herself  was 
encouraging,  and,  in  spite  of  doubts  and  fears,  pangs  of  jeal- 
ousy of  Mrs.  Meredith,  self-reproach  for  acting  against  her  fa- 
ther's wishes,  Olivia  felt  lighter-hearted  since  Ned  Mitchell's 
promise,  and  congratulated  herself,  as  she  approached  St. 
Cuthbert's  Vicarage  and  bade  good-bye  to  faithful  Mat,  that 
she  was  the  bearer  of  good  news. 

Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  went  up  the  stone  path-way  of 
the  barren  inclosure  before  the  house.  In  answer  to  her 
knock,  Mrs.  Warmington  opened  the  door,  and  uttered  a  short 
exclamation,  whether  of  surprise,  joy,  or  astonishment,  the 
visitor  could  not  tell. 

"  So  that's  the  answer  to  the  conundrum!"  was  her  rather 
bewildering  greeting. 

"  Is  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  at  home?"  asked  Olivia,  with 
some  dignity. 

But  Mrs.  Warmington  would  have  none  of  it. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  know  he  is,"  she  answered,  impatiently. 
"  And  what's  more,  you  know  he's  ill.  And  he  knows  you 
are  coming,  and  of  course  that's  the  reason  why  he  wouldn't 
go  back  to  bed,  when  he  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  bed's  the 
place  where  he  ought  to  be." 

"  If  he  does  expect  me,  it's  only  guess-work,"  said  Olivia, 
more  softly.  "  For  I've  sent  him  no  message,  and  he  has  sent 
me  none. " 

"  Oh,  the  air  carries  messages  between  some  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Warmington,  impatiently. 

"  Who  is  that?'  asked  Vernon  Brander 's  voice  from  the 
front  room. 

"It  is  I,  Mr.  Brander,"  answered  Olivia,  in  a  very  meek, 
small  voice. 

She  opened  the  door  and  entered  shyly,  with  a  prim  little 
speech  upon  her  lips,  something  about  "  so  many  inquiries 
having  been  made  for  him  that  she  had  offered  to  come  and 
learn  how  he  was. "  But  she  only  got  out  a  few  words  and 
stopped.  He  was  still  standing  by  the  door,  and  she  had  not 
yet  looked  at  him.  When  she  modestly  raised  her  eyes,  she 
read  in  his  face  such  feelings  as  put  her  pretty  platitudes  to 
flight. 


21t>  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  softly,  and  clasped  her  hands,  while  her 
lips  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled.  But  she  instantly  recovered 
herself  and  became  very  stately  and  stiff. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  said  he;  and,  closing  the  door,  he 
took  her  hands  in  both  his,  and  led  her  to  a  battered  arm- 
chair, which  stood  beside  the  worn  old  sofa  from  which  he  had 
just  risen. 

Olivia  allowed  herself  to  be  led  to  the  chair,  on  which  she 
sat  down  with  some  constraint.  Mr.  Brander  took  an  ordinary 
cane-seated  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  table.  There  was  a 
silence  of  some  moments.  Then  the  girl  spoke. 

"  I  am  glad  you  were  not  at  the  haymaking  this  afternoon, 
Mr.  Brander.  The  sun  was  so  hot,  even  up  to  the  time  I  left, 
that  it  was  quite  as  much  as  we  could  do  to  breathe  without 
the  fatigue  of  making  hay. " 

She  did  not  look  at  him  while  she  spoke;  but  as  he  only 
said  "  Yes  "  in  a  very  faint  voice,  she  slowly  turned  her  head 
and  saw  that  he  was  swaying  on  the  table,  ashy  white  and 
breathing  heavily.  All  her  shyness  and  constraint  broke  down 
iu  a  second.  She  started  up,  and  running  lightly  round  the 
table,  put  a  strong  supporting  arm  around  him. 

"  Come  to  the  sofa,"  she  said,  gently.  "  You  are  not  well 
enough  to  sit  up. " 

For  answer  he  laid  his  head  against  her  shoulder,  and  looked 


rapturously  into  her  beautiful  face. 
"  I  don't  feel  il 


ill/'  was  all  he  dared  to  say. 

Olivia  blushed,  but  did  not  withdraw  her  arm. 

"  That  is  all  nonsense/'  she  said,  imperiously.  "You  are 
ill,  and  I  believe  you  want  a  doctor,  and  I  mean  to  fetch  one. 
I'm  turning  nurse  to  the  parish/'  she  went  on,  merrily;  "  you 
know  it  was  1  who  got  the  doctor  for  Mr.  Mitchell." 

Vernon's  face  clouded. 

"  Yes;  1  know,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brander/'  continued  Olivia,  beginning  to  stam- 
mer and  hesitate.  "  I — 1  have  something  to  tell  you  about 
Mr.  Mitchell;  something  he  said — to  me,  this  afternoon." 

"  Well,  what  was  it?" 

"  They  were  talking — he  and  old  Mr.  Williams — this  after- 
noon, about  the  restoration  of — of — " 

"  Of  Saint  Cuthbert's  tower?" 

"  Yes.  Mr.  Mitchell  was  persuading  him  to  build  a  new 
tower — " 

"Persuading  him!  Clever  old  fox!  There's  a  proverb 
about  cheating  the  devil,  but  I  think  it  would  be  stronger  to 
talk  of  cheating  Ned  Mitchell." 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  21? 

Olivia  was  surprised  by  the  coolness  with  which  he  said  this. 
However,  she  hastened  to  add: 

"  But  I  don't  think  it  will  be  rebuilt  after  all." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  something  very  like  a  shade  of  disap- 
pointment crossed  his  face  at  these  words. 

"  How  is  that?"  was  all  he  said. 

"  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Mitchell  afterward,  and  he  promised  me 
never  to  do  anything  to  harm  you,"  said  Olivia,  in  a  gentle, 
earnest  voice,  quite  ignoring,  in  the  excitement  of  this  an- 
nouncement, how  much  of  her  own  feelings  she  was  betraying. 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  he,  very  quietly,  "  that  the  build- 
ing of  a  new  tower  at  Saint  Cuthbert's  would  do  me  harm?" 

"I — I  thought,"  said  Olivia,  much  confused,  "from  what 
I  had  heard,  that  you  did  not  wish  it  to  be  rebuilt. " 

"  And  1  suppose  you  must  have  some  idea  why?" 

"  "No,"  answered  Olivia,  quickly. 

"  Quite  sure?" 

"  Of  course  I  have  heard  what  people  say.*' 

"  If  1  were  a  wholly  innocent  man,  how  could  any  dis- 
coveries which  might  be  made  hurt  me?" 

"  I  don't  know;  I  should  have  thought  perhaps  they 
might." 

"  I  can  see  that  your  mind  is  not  free  from  doubts?" 

No  answer.  He  was  leaning  against  her,  and  speaking  with 
difficulty. 

"  And  yet  you  love  me  all  the  same?" 

The  question  burst  from  his  lips  in  a  low,  husky,  passionate 
whisper,  while  his  eyes  sought  hers,  and  his  hand  trembled  at 
the  contact  with  her  fingers.  For  answer  she  flung  her  right 
arm  round  his  neck,  and  pressed  her  lips  tenderly,  fervently 
on  his  pale  forehead.  He  shivered  in  her  arms  as  if  seized  by 
a  strong  convulsion  of  feeling;  then,  by  a  feverish  effort  tear- 
ing himself  from  her  embrace,  he  leaned  against  the  mantel- 
piece and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  murmuring,  in  a  hoarse 
and  broken  voice: 

"  God  bless  you!    And  God  forgive  me!" 

Olivia's  whole  heart  went  out  to  him  in  the  deep  distress 
from  which  he  was  evidently  suffering.  She  rose,  and  coming 
to  within  a  few  paces  of  where  he  stood,  said,  most  winningly: 

"  Come  and  lie  down  on  the  sofa.  I  will  read  to  you,  sing 
to  you,  do  anything  you  would  like  done;  but  you  must  not 
stand;  you  are  not  well  enough." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  with  a  smile  that  made  his  hag- 
gard face  for  a  moment  handsome. 


218  ST.  CDTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish/'  he  said,  "  if  you  will  in  re- 
turn do  something  1  am  going  to  command. " 

"  What  is  that?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile., 

"  Go  back  home  at  once.  You  are  here  against  your  fa- 
ther's wishes,  and  I  am  bound  in  honor  to  forbid  your  pres- 
ence here. " 

He  had  already  withdrawn  his  hand  from  hers;  he  dared 
not  trust  it  to  remain  there.  There  was  a  yearning  in  his  eyes 
which  stirred  all  the  pity,  and  all  the  tenderness,  in  her  nat- 
ure for  this  outcast  from  love  and  home  and  happiness.  She 
tried  to  take  his  pathetic  command  with  a  laugh,  as  he  had 
tried  to  give  it.  But  she  failed,  as  he  had  done.  And  so  they 
stood,  with  only  a  yard  of  faded  and  worn  old  carpet  between 
them,  reading  in  each  other's  eyes  the  longing,  she  to  comfort 
and  he  to  caress,  while  the  sunset  faded  slowly  outside,  and  the 
old  clock  ticked  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  faint  sounds  of  the 
clattering  of  cups  and  spoons  came  from  the  kitchen. 

"  There  is  some  one  at  the  gate,"  said  he  at  last.  And  he 
crossed  to  the  window  and  looked  out:  "  Ned  Mitchell." 

Olivia  started.  She  was  glad  Ned  had  come  while  she  was 
there,  being  anxious  to  note  how  he  met  Vernon. 

"  Come  straight  in,"  called  out  Vernon  from  the  window. 

And  Ned  came  in,  with  his  ponderous  walk  and  keen  glance. 
He  nodded  to  Olivia,  and  walking  straight  up  to  Vernon,  ex- 
amined him  attentively. 

"  So  you're  on  the  sick  list,  I  hear,"  he  said,  not  unkindly. 
"  By  the  look  of  you  I  should  say  you'll  be  on  the  burial  list 
soon  if  you  don't  take  care  of  yourself. " 

Olivia  uttered  a  low  cry  of  horror. 

'  You  want  a  wife  to  look  after  you.  Some  men  can  get  on 
best  without  a  woman;  I'm  one;  that's  why  I'm  married. 
Some  can't  get  on  without  one;  you're  one  of  that  sort;  that's 
why  you're  a  bachelor.  One  of  the  dodges  of  Providence  to 
keep  us  from  growing  too  fond  of  this  precious  world,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Well,  as  I  choose  to  mortify  the  flesh  by  remaining  a 
bachelor,  it's  unkind  of  you  to  throw  my  misfortune  in  my 
face,  isn't  it?"  said  Vernon,  not  succeeding  very  well  in  the 
effort  to  speak  in  his  usual  manner. 

"  Sit  down,  man,"  said  Ned,  peremptorily.  "  You  ought 
to  be  in  bed.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  knock  off  your  work, 
who's  to  do  it  for  you?" 

"Nobody;  there  is  nobody;  therefore  I  must  not  knock  off," 
said  Vernon,  feverishly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  must.     Health's  everything,"  said  Ned,  with 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  219 

his  small,  sharp  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  "  Now  I've  a  pro- 
posal to  make  to  you.  There's  not  much  of  a  parson's  work  a 
rough  man  like  me  can  do,  but  there's  some,  taking  messages 
and  seeing  people  and  things  like  that.  Now  it's  precious  dull 
up  at  my  hole  of  a  cottage.  So  I'm  coming  to  stay  a  day  or 
two  with  you,  and  your  old  woman  can  put  me  up  in  the  little 
room  that's  next  to  your  bedroom.  It's  all  settled,  you  un- 
derstand," he  added,  lifting  his  hand  and  raising  his  voice 
peremptorily  at  the  same  time. 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Vernon,  though  his  tone 
betrayed  more  curiosity  than  gratitude.  "  But,  at  any  rate, 
if  you  choose  to  stay  here,  you  shall  have  the  best  bedroom  we 
can  offer  you.  The  little  box  next  to  mine  is  filled  with  noth- 
ing but  lumber." 

"That's  the  room  1  mean  to  have,  though,"  said  Ned, 
stubbornly.  "  I'm  of  a  romantic  and  melancholy  disposition, 
and  I  like  the  view.  It  looks  out  into  the  church-yard." 

The  curiosity  died  out  suddenly  from  Vernon's  face. 

"  And  if  I  am  compelled  to  assure  you  that  it  is  impossible 
that  room  should  be  used?" 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  come  and  encamp  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, that's  all." 

The  men  looked  straight  at  each  other,  and  Vernon  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"  You  can  come  if  you  like,"  said  he,  indifferently. 

Olivia,  who  had  listened  with  much  interest  to  this  discus- 
sion, now  came  forward  to  bid  Vernon  good-bye.  Ned,  with 
ostentatious  discreetness,  tramped  heavily  to  the  window,  and 
looked  out.  But  he  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble; 
for  before  he  got  there  the  ceremony  of  farewell  was  over. 
Olivia  had  put  her  hand  in  Vernon's,  and  they  had  given  a 
brief  look  each  into  the  face  of  the  other.  Ned,  as  he  stared 
into  the  bare  inclosure  outside,  suddenly  felt  a  light  touch  on 
his  arm. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  said  Olivia.  "  Don't  forget— 
your  promise." 

"  I  never  forget  anything,"  said  Ned,  dryly. 

The  next  minute  she  was  hurrying  up  the  lane,  with  the  eyes 
of  both  men  fixed  on  her  retreating  figure. 

"  That's  a  good  sort,"  said  Ned,  approvingly. 

To  this  Vernon  Brander  assented  very  shortly. 

Olivia  had  forbidden  Mat  to  wait  for  her,  but  she  was  not 
to  go  home  unescorted.  At  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  the 
lane  joined  the  high-road,  she  found  the  irrepressible  Fred 
Williams  sitting  on  the  bank,  making  passes  at  a  white  butter- 


220  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEB. 

fly  with  his  walking-stick.  Olivia  uttered  an  "Oh!"  full  of 
impatience  and  disgust.  Fred  got  up,  grinning  at  her  in  ob- 
tuse admiration. 

"  I  knew  where  you'd  gone,"  he  said,  nodding  with  a  know- 
ing air.  "  So  I  came  to  see  you  home." 

He  was  still  rather  nervous,  which  was  perhaps  the  reason 
why  he  failed  to  perceive  the  full  extent  of  her  annoyance  at 
this  second  meeting.  He  had,  besides,  primed  himself  for  a 
speech,  and  that  speech  he  meant  to  make. 

"  We  were  interrupted  just  now  in  the  hayfield,"  he  began 
— "  just  when  1  was  on  the  point  of — " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  now/'  broke  in  Olivia,  impatiently,  "  I 
have  something  to  think  about." 

"  Well  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  don't  require  think- 
ing about;  1  want  you  to  marry  me.  Yes  or  No." 

"  No!"  said  Olivia,  promptly. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  you'd  say  that  first  go  off.  But  let  me 
reason  with  you  a  little.  You  must  get  married  some  time. 
You  like  another  fellow  better  than  me — " 

"  I  do — a  great  many  other  fellows!" 

"  Well,  but  one  in  particular.  Now  you  can't  have  him, 
and  you  can  have  me.  And  if  you  do  have  me,  you  can  do  a 
good  turn  to  the  other  fellow. " 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  girl,  turning  white  at  the 
young  man's  tone. 

"  If  you'll  promise  to  marry  me — seriously,  mind — I'll  per- 
suade my  father  not  to  build  the  new  tower  to  Saint  Cuthbert's. 
Nobody  but  me  can  stop  him.  That  chap  Mitchell  is  egging 
him  on  to  it  with  all  his  might." 

"  He's  changed  his  mind,"  said  Olivia,  quietly. 

"  Oh,  has  he?  Since  when,  I  should  like  to  know?  He  met 
me  sitting  here  five  minutes  ago,  on  his  way  down  to  Saint  Cuth- 
bert's, where  you're  just  come  from  "  (with  another  knowing 
nod),  "  and  he  gave  me  this  note  for  my  father.  I  opened  it. 
Won't  you  read  it?  All  right;  but  you  shall  hear  what  it 
says." 

Fred  was  holding  a  part  of  the  old  envelope,  which  had  been 
scribbled  on  in  pencil  and  folded.  He  read  it  aloud: 

"  '  DEAB  MR.  WILLIAMS, — Hurry  on  the  rebuilding  of  Saint 
Cuthbert's  tower  as  fast  as  you  can.     I  hear  there  is  a  pro- 
posal afloat  to  be  beforehand  with  you,  and  to  deprive  you  of 
all  the  credit  of  the  thing  by  getting  it  up  by  subscription. 
"Yours,  E.MITCHELL." 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  221 

Poor  Olivia  was  aghast  at  poor  Ned's  breach  of  faith,  but 
she  affected  unconcern. 

"  I  don't  see  how  the  rebuilding  of  Saint  Cuthbert's  tower 
can  affect  either  me  or  Mr.  Veraon  Brander. " 

"  Nor  do  I.  But  I  can  see  it  does.  Anyhow,  I'll  give  you 
till  to-morrow  morning  to  consider  the  thing,  and  I'll  meet 
you  in  the  poultry  run  when  you  feed  the  chickens — if  I  can 
get  up  early  enough.  And  as  I  see  you  want  to  think  over  it 
by  yourself,  I'll  take  myself  off  for  the  present.  Good-even- 
ing, Miss  Denison." 

He  sauntered  away  in  the  opposite  direction  to  Bishton,  his 
mischievous  good  humor  perfectly  undisturbed;  while  Olivia, 
more  concerned  for  Mr.  Vernon  Brander  than  ever,  hurried 
home,  and  sneaked  up  to  her  room  to  consider  the  new  posi- 
tion of  affairs,  and  to  write  a  pleading  note  to  Ned  Mitchell. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

OLIVIA  DENISON'S  thoughts  on  the  morning  after  the  hay- 
making were  entirely  occupied  with  Vernon  Brander,  his  ill- 
ness, the  possibility  of  his  innocence,  and  the  chances  of  his 
escape  if  guilty;  so  that  when,  on  entering  the  poultry-yard 
with  her  basket  on  her  arm,  she  found  Fred  Williams  amus- 
ing himself  by  setting  two  cocks  to  fight  each  other,  she  uttered 
a  cry  of  unmistakable  annoyance  and  astonishment. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  hadn't  expected  to  see  me,  and  as  if, 
by  Jove,  you  hadn't  wanted  to!"  said  he,  frankly.  As  she 
made  no  answer,  but  only  raised  her  eyebrows,  he  went  on: 
"  Don't  you  remember  I  said  1  should  be  here  this  morning?" 

*'  1  had  forgotten  it,  or  only  remembered  it  as  a  kind  of 
nightmare. " 

"  Do  you  mean  me  to  take  your  rudeness  seriously?"  asked 
Fred,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  had  at  last  struggled  with  the 
amazing  fact  that  he  had  met  a  girl  to  whom  his  admiration, 
and  all  the  glorious  possibilities  it  conveyed,  meant  absolutely 
nothing. 

"  As  seriously  as  I  have  always  taken  yours." 

Fred  was  silent  again  for  some  moments,  during  which 
Olivia  went  on  throwing  handf  uls  of  grain  to  the  chickens, 
and  calling  softly,  "  Coop-coop-coop-coop  I"  in  a  most  per- 
suasive and  unconcerned  manner. 

"  And  you  really  mean  that  this  is  your  last  answer?  I  can 
tell  you,  it's  your  last  chance  with  me!" 

Olivia  turned,  making  the  most  of  her  majestic  height,  and 
looked  down  on  him  with  the  loftiest  disdain. 


222  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  1  assure  you  that  if  it  were  my  *  last  chance/  as  you  call 
it,  not  only  with  you,  but  with  anybody,  I  should  say  just  the 
same. " 

Fred  Williams  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  yard,  turned 
out  the  heterogeneous  contents  of  one  of  his  pockets,  and 
began  turning  them  over  with  shaking  fingers  to  hide  his 
mortification. 

Still  Olivia  went  on  with  her  occupation,  without  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  him.  Suddenly  the  rejected  suitor 
shoveled  all  the  things  he  had  taken  out  back  into  his  pockets, 
and  with  a  monkey-like  spring  placed  himself  right  in  front 
of  her. 

"  1  wish  there  was  somebody  about  to  tell  you  what  a  jolly 
fool  you're  making  of  yourself,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her 
rather  viciously. 

"  You  may  go  and  fetch  somebody  to  do  so  if  you  like/* 
said  she,  serenely. 

"  And  leave  you  in  peace  for  a  little  while,  I  suppose  you 
mean?" 

"  Perhaps  some  such  thought  may  have  crossed  my  mind." 

Mr.  Fred  Williams  had  not  a  high  opinion  of  himself,  but 
experience  had  taught  him  that  his  ' '  expectations  ' '  gave  him 
an  adventitious  value;  to  find  neither  his  modesty  nor  his 
money  of  any  avail  was  a  discovery  which  destroyed  for  once 
his  habitual  good  humor,  and  showed  a  side  of  his  character 
which  he  should  by  all  means  have  kept  concealed  from  a  lady 
he  wished  to  charm. 

"  Very  well,"  he  snarled,  while  an  ugly  blush  spread  over 
his  face,  and  his  fingers  twitched  with  anger;  "  very  well. 
You  may  think  it  very  smart  to  snub  me,  and  high-spirited, 
and  all  that.  I've  stood  a  good  deal  of  it — a  good  deal  more 
than  I'd  have  stood  from  anybody  else — because  you're  hand- 
some. I  know  I'm  not  handsome,  or  refined  either;  but  I 
don't  pretend  to  be.  But  I'm  a  lot  handsomer  than  the 
hatchet-faced  parson,  anyhow.  And  as  for  refinement,  you 
can  get  a  lot  more  for  twenty-five  thousand  a  year  than  for  a 
couple  of  hundred,  which  is  quite  a  decent  screw  for  one  of 
your  preaching  fellows.  But  now  I've  done  with  you,  I  tell 
you,  I've  done  with  you. " 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  singular  expression,  considering  that 
I've  never  given  you  the  slightest  encouragement?"  asked 
Olivia,  coldly. 

"Encouragement!  I  don't  expect  encouragement;  but  I 
expect  a  girl  like  you  to  know  a  good  thing  when  she  sees  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  differ  as  to  what  constitutes  a  good  thing. " 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEB.  223 

"  Very  likely;  but  we  sha'n't  '  differ  as  to  what  constitutes  ' 
a  bad  thing  for  Vernon  Brander;  and  if  you  don't  see  all  those 
twopenny  geraniums  pulled  up  out  of  Saint  Cuthbert's  Church- 
yard, and  every  stone  grubbed  up,  and  every  brick  of  that  old 
tower  pulled  down  before  another  week's  up,  my  name's  not 
Fred  Williams.  There,  Miss  Denison;  now,  what  do  you  say 
to  that?" 

"  I  say  that  you  have  fully  justified  your  low  opinion  of 
yourself. " 

"And  I'll  justify  my  low  opinion  of  Vernon  Brander.  If 
he's  got  any  secrets  buried  in  those  old  stones,  we'll  have  them 
dragged  out,  and  make  you  jolly  well  ashamed  of  your  friend. " 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't  do  that,"  said  Olivia,  who  had  turned 
pale  to  the  lips  and  grown  very  majestic  and  stern;  "  though 
you  have  succeeded  in  making  me  ashamed  of  having  called 
you  even  an  acquaintance. " 

"  Perhaps  you  have  a  weakness  for — " 

Before  he  could  finish  his  sentence,  he  found  himself  seized 
by  the  shoulders,  and  saw  towering  over  him  a  beautiful  coun- 
tenance, so  aglow  with  passionate  indignation  that  it  looked 
like  the  face  of  a  fury. 

"  If  you  dare  to  say  that  word  I'll  shake  you  like  a  rat!" 
hissed  out  Olivia,  giving  him  an  earnest  of  her  promise  with 
great  good  will. 

"  Stop!  stop!  unless  you — want  to — kill  somebody — to  be 
more — like — your — precious — friend,"  panted  Fred,  who  was 
not  a  coward. 

Olivia  let  him  go  with  a  movement  which  sent  him  spinning 
among  the  chickens. 

"  Well,  that's  cool,"  panted  he,  as  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
looked  at  it  ruefully.  You  talk  about  refinement  one  min- 
ute and  the  next  you  treat  me  in  this  unlady-like  way!" 

"  Oh,  I  apologize  for  my  vulgar  manners,"  laughed  Olivia, 
who  was  already  rather  ashamed  of  her  outbreak.  "I'm  only 
a  farmer's  daughter,  you  know. " 

"  Yes,  and  you  couldn't  give  yourself  more  airs  if  you  were 
a  duchess.  Your  father  isn't  so  proud  by  a  long  way,  I  can 
tell  you,"  he  added  with  meaning. 

Olivia  became  in  an  instant  very  quiet. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  sternly. 

"  Oh,  nothing  but  that  he's  been  in  the  habit  of  borrowing 
money  from  me  for  some  time;  only  trifling  sums,  but  still 
they  seemed  to  come  in  handy,  judgtng  by  the  way  he  thanked 
me." 


224  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

He  was  disappointed  to  see  that  Olivia  took  this  information 
without  any  of  the  tragic  airs  he  had  expected. 

"  I  dare  say  they  did/'  said  she.  "  We  are  not  too  well  off, 
as  everybody  knows. " 

The  simplicity  with  which  she  uttered  these  words  made  the 
young  man  feel  at  last  rather  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  he'll  pay  me  back,"  he  said,  hastily. 

Olivia  opened  great,  proud  eyes,  full  of  astonishment  anrl 
disdain,  and  said,  superbly:  "  Of  course  he  will." 

"  And  you  don't  feel  annoyed  at  the  obligation,  eh?"  asked 
Fred,  rather  bewildered. 

"  I  don't  see  any  obligation,"  said  she,  quietly. 

"  Oh,  don't  you?  Well,  most  people  would  consider  it  one." 

"  How  much  does  he  owe  you?" 

"  Oh,  only  a  matter  of  forty  or  fifty  pounds." 

He  thought  the  amount  would  astonish  and  distress  her; 
but  as,  apparently,  it  failed  to  do  either,  he  hastened  to  add: 

"  Of  course,  that's  a  mere  nothing;  but  he  let  me  know,  a 
day  or  two  ago,  that  he  should  want  a  much  larger  loan,  and 
of  course  I  informed  him  he  could  have  it  for  the  asking." 

She  did  wince  at  that;  but  the  manner  in  which  she  resent- 
ed his  impertinence  was  scarcely  to  his  taste. 

"  And  you  think  the  obligation  is  on  our  side?"  she  said, 
sweetly,  but  with  a  tremor  of  subdued  anger  in  her  voice. 
"  \Vhat  have  you  done  except  to  lend  my  father  a  few  pounds, 
which  you  would  never  have  missed,  even  if  you  had  thrown 
them  into  a  well  instead  of  lent  them  to  an  honorable  man! 
While  he,  by  accepting  the  loan,  has  given  you  a  chance  of 
putting  on  patronizing  airs  toward  a  man  in  every  respect  your 
superior." 

"  All  right — all  right!  Go  on!  Vernon  Brander  shall  pay 
for  this!"  snarled  Fred,  at  last  rendered  thoroughly  savage  by 
her  contempt. 

"  Vernou  Brander  will  never  be  the  worse  for  having  you 
for  an  enemy.  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  if  you  were  his 
friend,"  she  said,  defiantly. 

"  Oh,  all  right,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Fred,  glad  at  last 

to  beat  a  retreat,  and  delivering  his  parting  words  at  the  gate 

of  the  ponltry-yard,  with  one  foot  in  the  new-laid  egg-basket 

'  Then  if  anything  unpleasant  happens  to  your  father  or  your 

parson  through  me,  you'll  be  able  to  make  light  of  it!" 

Olivia  felt  rather  frightened  when  she  saw  how  discolored 
and  distorted  with  rage  his  little  weasel  face  had  become. 
But  she  bore  a  brave  front,  and  only  said,  for  all  reply  to  his 
threats: 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  225 

1 '  Won't  you  find  it  more  convenient  to  stand  on  the  ground, 
Mr.  Williams?  To  walk  about  among  eggs  without  accident 
requires  a  great  deal  of  skill  and  experience. " 

But  when,  with  an  impatient  exclamation,  he  left  the  poul- 
try-yard, Olivia's  heart  gave  way,  and  she  began  to  reproach 
herself  bitterly  for  not  having  kept  a  bridle  upon  her  tongue. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  was  glad  that  her  words  had  provoked 
the  mean  little  fellow  to  confess  his  loans  to  her  father;  for 
she  thought  she  had  influence  enough  with  the  latter  to  pre- 
vent any  more  such  transactions,  and  as  for  the  money  already 
owing,  means  must  somehow  be  found  to  repay  it. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  she  was  able  to  start 
on  the  way  to  St.  Cuthbert's.  She  felt,  as  usual,  some  self- 
reproach  at  the  thought  that  she  was  acting  contrary  to  her 
father's  wishes;  but,  as  usual,  she  was  too  self-willed  to  give 
up  her  own  in  deference  to  his.  The  sun  was  still  glowing  on 
the  fields,  and  pouring  its  hot  rays  on  the  roads,  which  were 
parched  and  cracked  for  want  of  rain.  The  cart-tracks  made 
faint  lines  in  a  thick  layer  of  white  dust,  which  the  lightest 
breeze  from  the  hills  blew  up  in  clouds,  coating  the  leaves  on 
the  hedges  and  swirling  into  heaps  by  the  well-worn  foot-path. 
The  wood  that  bordered  the  road  for  some  distance  between 
Rishton  and  Matherham  was  as  silent  as  if  the  birds  had  all  left 
it;  oak  and  beech  and  dusty  pine  looked  dry  and  brown  in  the 
glare.  It  was  a  long,  hot,  weary  walk;  but  at  last  she  came 
near  the  lonely  vicarage,  and  slipping  down  the  final  few  yards 
of  the  steep  lane,  in  a  cloud  of  dust  which  was  raised  by  her 
own  feet  at  each  step,  Olivia  heard  the  faint  sound  of  voices 
coming  from  the  house,  and  stopped  short,  fancying  she  could 
detect  Vernon's  voice,  and  wondering  who  was  with  him. 
But  the  sounds  ceased,  and  she  went  slowly  on,  thinking  she 
had  perhaps  been  mistaken.  She  entered  the  garden  gate,  and 
walked  up  the  stone  path-way,  still  without  hearing  anything 
more,  until,  suddenly,  just  as  she  was  within  a  few  paces  of 
the  door,  she  heard  a  woman's  voice,  low,  but  clear  and 
strong,  utter  these  words: 

"  Remember,  you  swore  it.  Ten  years  ago  you  swore  it  to 
me,  and  it  is  still  as  binding  on  you  as  it  was  then." 

:'  Why  should  I  forget  it?" 

Olivia  knew  that  it  was  Mrs.  Brander's  voice  that  answered, 
in  a  tone  full  of  contempt  and  dislike: 

:'  Why,  this  Denison  girl,  this — " 

Neither  she  nor  Vernon  had  paid  any  heed  to  the  footsteps 
on  the  stone  flags. 


226  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

Now  Olivia  hastened  to  ring  the  bell  sharply,  and  there  was 
silence  immediately. 

"How  is  Mr.  Brander  to-day?"  asked  she  of  Mrs.  Warm- 
ington  when  the  housekeeper  opened  the  door. 

"  He's  not  much  better,  and  not  likely  to  be  while  that  un- 
civilized creature  from  the  Antipodes  continues  to  make  his 
abode  here,  and  worry  my  master  morning,  noon,  and  night," 
said  the  housekeeper,  tartly. 

"Mr.  Mitchell?    Where  is  he  now?"  asked  Olivia,  eagerly. 

"  He's  out  in  the  church-yard  there,  poking  about  among 
the  grave-stones.  I've  been  watching  him  from  the  window  of 
the  little  room  he  sleeps  in.  I  don't  know  how  he  got  hold  of 
the  key.  I  have  a  duplicate,  for  cleaning  the  church.  1  don't 
know  myself  where  my  master  keeps  his. " 

"  1  think  I'll  go  and  speak  to  Mr.  Mitchell,  and  come  back 
when  Mr.  Brander  is  disengaged. " 

"  Disengaged!    He's  disengaged  now,  as  far  as  I  know — " 

"  I  think  I  heard  Mrs.  Brander 's  voice  as  I  came  up  the 
path." 

The  housekeeper's  lips  tightened,  and  she  drew  herself  up 
in  evident  disapproval. 

"  Indeed!     I  was  not  aware  she  was  here." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  back  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  I 
should  like  to  see  Mr.  Brander,"  said  Olivia,  hastily. 

Mrs.  Warmington  raised  her  eyebrows.  She  was  longing  to 
tell  Miss  Denison  that  she  thought,  under  the  circumstances, 
it  would  be  more  modest  to  stay  away;  but  she  did  not  dare. 
So  Olivia  tripped  down  the  stone  path,  and  was  in  the  church- 
yard before  the  housekeeper  had  had  time  to  make  up  her 
mind  how  much  of  her  suspicions  it  would  be  proper  to  com- 
municate to  a  ycung  girl. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Olivia  succeeded  in  finding  Ned 
Mitchell.  The  sun  was  setting  by  this  time,  and  there  were 
dark  shadows  among  the  ruined  portions  of  the  church.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  she  walked  between  the  newly  laid  out  flower- 
beds with  their  bright  array  of  geranium,  calceolaria  and  ver- 
bena, that  this  innovation  was  out  of  place,  and  only  showed 
up,  in  a  more  striking  manner,  the  havoc  time  and  tempest 
had  made  among  the  old  stones,  just  as  the  mowing  of  the 
grass  upon  them  had  accentuated  the  irregular  mounds  and 
hillocks  which  filled  the  ruined  south  aisle.  Olivia  stepped  in 
and  out  and  over  the  mounds,  calling  softly,  "  Mr.  Mitchell!" 
At  last,  in  the  corner  where  the  old  crypt  was,  she  heard  a 
sound  coming,  as  it  were,  from  the  ground  under  her  feet. 
She  stopped  and  listened,  holding  her  breath.  The  sounds 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  227 

continued,  a  soft,  muffled  **  thud,  thud/'  as  of  some  heavy 
instrument  brought  again  and  again  down  on  the  earth.  She 
advanced,  step  by  step,  always  listening,  fancying  that  she  felt 
the  ground  tremble  under  her  feet  at  the  force  of  the  blows. 
At  last  she  came  close  to  the  place  where  the  rugged  steps 
leading  down  into  the  crypt  had  been  blocked  up  years  before. 
With  her  senses  keenly  at  the  alert,  Olivia  noticed  that  some 
of  the  stones  and  earth  which  blocked  the  entrance  had  been 
recently  moved;  and  prying  more  closely,  she  found,  behind  a 
bramble  and  a  tuft  of  rank  grass,  a  small  hole,  low  down  in  the 
ground,  which  looked  scarcely  large  enough  for  the  passage  of 
a  man's  body.  However,  this  seemed  to  be  the  only  outlet 
from  the  vault,  so  Olivia  sat  down  on  a  broken  grave-stone 
and  waited. 

It  seemed  to  Olivia,  to  be  growing  quite  cold  and  dark  before 
a  scraping  and  rumbling  noise,  as  of  falling  stones  and  earth, 
drew  her  attention  to  the  concealed  hole  in  the  ground.  She 
got  up,  and  the  noise  almost  ceased. 

"  It  is  I,  Mr.  Mitchell/'  she  said,  without  being  able  to  see 
him;  "  I've  been  waiting  for  you." 

For  answer,  Mr.  Mitchell's  unmistakable  gruff  voice  mur- 
mured a  string  of  sullen  imprecations,  of  which,  luckily,  noth- 
ing was  distinctly  audible.  However,  he  put  his  head  out  of 
the  hole,  and  then  proceeded  to  extricate  the  whole  of  his  per- 
son with  such  exceeding  neatness  and  cleverness  that  the  hole 
was  scarcely  enlarged  and  the  bramble  and  grass  remained  in- 
tact. He  presented  a  strange  appearance,  however,  for  he 
was  in  his  shirt  sleeves;  a  colored  silk  handkerchief  was  bound 
round  his  head  down  to  his  eyes;  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a 
common  kitchen  poker,  while  he  was  so  covered  with  mold 
and  dust  from  head  to  foot  that  but  for  his  peculiarly  heavy 
movements  and  rough  voice  he  would  have  been  unrecog- 
nizable. 

"Well,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked,  very  ill- 
humoredly,  as  he  shook  himself  free  from  some  of  the  dust  he 
had  collected  in  his  subterranean  exploration.  "  I  thought  I 
heard  somebody  messing  about  up  here.  How  did  you  get  in?" 

"  In  the  same  way  that  you  did,  except  that  I  asked  for  a 
key  instead  of  taking  one  without  asking." 

She  was  alarmed  to  see,  when  he  had  wiped  some  of  the  dirt 
off  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  that  he  looked  savagely  self- 
satisfied  and  quite  beyond  all  reasoning.  This  was  proved 
clearly  by  his  next  words.  He  nodded  his  head  quietly  while 
she  spoke,  and  then  said: 

"  All  right.     That's  so.     Now,  you  had  better  run  home, 


228  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

and  be  careful  not  to  say  anything  about  what  you've  just 
seen.  For  I  tell  you,  little  girl,  if  you  do  anything  to  inter- 
fere with  me  and  my  actions  just  now,  it'll  be  the  worst  day's 
work  for  your  little  parson  up  yonder  that  ever  was  done.  So 
now  you  know. " 

Olivia  shivered,  but  she  did  not  answer  or  contradict  him. 
She  only  said,  in  a  subdued  and  tremulous  voice,  "  Good- 
evening,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  and  walked  away  toward  the  gate, 
stumbling  over  the  chips  of  stone  that  lay  hidden  in  the  grass, 
which  had  been  allowed  to  remain  long  and  rank  in  this  the 
south  side  of  the  grave-yard.  She  unlocked  the  gate,  passed 
out,  and  was  relocking  it  when  she  heard  rapid  footsteps  be- 
hind her. 

"  Give  me  that  key!"  said  Mrs.  Brander's  voice,  so  hoarse, 
so  agitated  that  Olivia  looked  round  before  she  could  be  sure 
that  it  was  really  the  vicar's  calm,  cold  wife. 

Her  large  eyes  had  deep  black  semicircles  under  them;  her 
usually  firm  lips  were  trembling;  her  whole  appearance 
showed  a  disorder,  a  lack  of  that  dainty  preciseness  in  little 
things  which  was  so  strongly  characteristic  of  her. 

"  This  key!"  said  Olivia,  doubtfully.  "  Do  you  know  who 
is  in  there?" 

Mrs.  Brander  examined  the  girl  from  head  to  foot  with  pas- 
sionate mistrust,  while  at  the  same  time  she  struggled  to  regain 
a  calmer  manner. 

"  Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  with  an  attempt  at  an  indifferent 
tone. 

"Mr.  Mitchell." 

The  vicar's  wife  drew  back  from  the  gate. 

"  You  mean  this?    You  are  not  playing  me  a  trick?" 

"A  trick?    No.     Why  should  I?" 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Brander  stood  look- 
ing at  her  fixedly.  As  she  did  not  speak,  Olivia  presently 
asked : 

"  Do  you  still  wish  to  go  in?" 

Mrs.  Brander  hesitated,  and  then  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  No,"  she  murmured,  scarcely  above  her  breath,  "  I — 1 
won't  go  in. " 

As,  however,  she  did  not  attempt  to  go  away,  Olivia  bade 
her  "  good-night  "  without  getting  any  answer,  and  went  up 
the  lane  toward  the  house.  She  did  not  wish  to  call  at  the 
vicarage  now;  she  wanted  first  to  have  time  to  think  over  what 
she  had  seen  and  heard  in  the  church-yard,  as  well  as  her  in- 
terview with  Mrs.  Brander.  A  new  idea,  which  promised  to 
throw  light  on  the  whole  mystery,  had  come  into  her  mind. 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  229 

But  there  was  the  key  to  be  returned  to  Mrs.  Warmington. 
After  a  moment's  thought,  she  decided  that  she  would  leave 
it  at  the  back  door,  and  thus  escape  the  risk  of  a  meeting  with 
Vernon. 

But  when  she  had  reached  the  gate  of  the  yard  behind  the 
house,  she  heard  Vernon's  voice  calling  her. 

"  Miss  Denison,  Miss  Denison,  wait  one  moment!" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  her  from  a  side  window,  and  in  an- 
other minute  he  had  come  down  to  her. 

"  Why  did  you  come  round  this  way?"  he  asked,  taking 
her  hand  in  one  of  his,  which  was  hot,  and  dry,  and  feverish. 

"  I — I  have  the  key  of  the  church-yard  to  return  to  Mrs. 
Warmington. " 

"  And  you  wanted  to  escape  the  chance  of  seeing  me.  But 
1  was  watching  for  you,  you  know,"  said  he,  looking  at  her 
tenderly.  Then  he  suddenly  changed  his  manner.  "  I  thought 
you  would  come  and  see  me  to-day/ '  he  said.  "  It  would  be 
like  your  usual  kindness  when  any  one  is  ill. " 

"1  did  call  and  inquire,"  said  Olivia,  demurely.  "But 
Mrs.  Brander  was  with  you. " 

Vernon  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed;  "  then  I  know  when  you  came.  1 
heard  your  footsteps."  Then  he  looked  at  her  curiously,  and 
asked:  "  Didn't  you  hear  voices?  Didn't  you  hear  us  talking?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Olivia,  simply.  "And  1  heard  some- 
thing of  what  you  were  saying. " 

"You  will  tell  me  what  you  heard?" 

01-via  answered,  looking  down: 

"  I  heard  her  remind  you  to  keep  an  oath  that  you  had 
made  to  her,  and  I  heard  her  mention — me!" 

"  And  didn't  you  want  to  know  what  she  meant?" 

"  1  suppose  1  did." 

"  And  will  you  be  content  not  to  know?" 

"  Perhaps  I  shall.  For  1  think  I  have  guessed  something 
of  the  truth  already. " 

Vernon's  eyes  glowed  with  passionate  yearning  as  they  met 
hers. 

"  Impossible!"  said  he,  below  his  breath.  "  And  yet — you 
women  have  such  quick  perception.  If  it  is  true  that  you 
know,"  he  went  on,  in  a  firmer  and  sterner  voice,  "  I  shall 
never  dare  to  speak  to  you  again. " 

Olivia  was  trembling  with  excitement.  It  was  not  true  that 
she  was  mistress  of  the  secret,  but  there  was  a  dim  intuition  in 
her  mind  which  bewildered,  sometimes  almost  maddened,  her. 
She  did  not  attempt  to  answer  Vernon  Brander;  but  drawing 


230  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

sharply  away  from  him  the  hand  he  still  held,  she  abruptly 
wished  him  ie  good-night/'  and  putting  the  church  key  on 
the  wall  beside  him,  ran  away  up  the  lane  as  fast  as  her  active 
feet  could  carry  her. 

When  Olivia  reached  home  she  was  greeted  by  severe  silence 
on  the  part  of  her  step-mother;  while  her  father,  who  was 
usually  so  careful  to  try  to  make  amends  for  any  unkindness 
of  his  wife's  by  little  unobtrusive  attentions,  carefully  avoided 
her.  The  girl  learned  the  reason  of  this  treatment  by  remarks 
which  Mrs.  Denison,  apropos  of  nothing,  addressed  from  time 
to  time  to  the  children,  warning  them  not  to  spoil  their  clothes, 
as  they  were  the  last  they  would  have;  telling  them  not  to 
disturb  their  father,  as  he  was  writing  to  a  gentleman  to  whom 
he  owed  money,  asking  for  time  in  which  to  repay  it;  and 
finally  admonishing  them  to  be  courteous  to  Olivia,  as  she 
could  have  the  place  sold  up  in  a  moment  by  insulting  her 
father's  creditiors;  from  which  Olivia  gathered  that  Fred  Will- 
iams had  already  vented  his  spite  on  her  father,  and  thereby 
prepared  a  most  uncomfortable  domestic  life  for  her  for  some 
time  to  come. 

She  affected  to  take  no  notice  of  this  treatment,  however, 
and  did  not  even  go  in  search  of  her  father,  thinking  it  would 
be  better  to  let  the  first  effects  both  of  Fred's  and  of  his  wife's 
ill  temper  pass  off  before  she  spoke  to  him  on  the  subject  of 
the  former's  addresses. 

Telling  Lucy  to  bring  her  supper  up  to  her  rooms,  Olivia 
left  the  inharmonious  family  circle  without  bidding  good- 
night to  any  one,  and  shut  herself  up  in  the  east  wing,  where 
she  could  always  draw  the  bolt  of  the  outer  door  and  be  free 
from  molestation.  This  she  did,  and  being  in  a  restless  and 
excited  state  of  mind,  passed  the  next  two  hours  in  wandering 
from  one  room  to  the  other,  considering  the  mystery  of  Nellie 
Mitchell's  disappearance  by  the  light  of  all  the  facts  which, 
one  by  one,  had  come  to  her  knowledge.  She  had  become  so 
accustomed  to  these  rooms  that  it  was  only  now  and  then  that 
she  remembered  their  connection  with  the  murdered  girl. 
To-night,  however,  the  recollection  startled  her  at  every  turn 
she  took  in  her  walks  up  and  down.  She  seemed  again  to  see 
the  bedroom  as  it  had  looked  on  her  first  entrance,  nearly  six 
months  ago,  the  rat  scurrying  down  the  curtains,  the  carpet 
lying  in  damp  strings  upon  the  floor,  the  moldy  books,  and 
the  dust  lying  thickly  on  chairs  and  mantel-piece.  Every- 
thing had  been  changed  since  then;  fresh  hangings  put  to  the 
bed;  bright  cretonne  coverings  to  the  old  furniture;  a  new 
carpet,  soft  and  warm,  had  replaced  the  damp  rags.  But  on 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  231 

this  particular  evening  her  imagination  seemed  stronger  than 
reality.  As  she  walked  from  the  one  room  to  the  other,  she 
pictured  to  herself  always  that  the  chamber  she  was  now  in  at 
was  in  the  state  in  which  she  had  first  seen  it. 

These  fancies  grew  so  strong  that  they  drove  more  serious 
thoughts  out  of  her  head;  just  when  she  wanted  to  be  able  to 
analyze  the  ideas  which  the  day's  occurrences  had  suggested, 
she  had  lost  all  power  of  thinking  connectedly;  nothing  but 
bewildering  recollections  of  the  words  she  had  heard  and  the 
scenes  she  had  witnessed  could  be  got  to  occupy  her  excited 
mind. 

She  ran  at  last  to  one  of  her  bedroom  windows,  threw  it 
open,  and  looked  out.  It  was  dark  now,  for  it  was  past  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  evening  had  turned  wet.  A  light,  drizzling 
summer  rain  was  falling,  and  the  sky  was  heavy  with  clouds. 
The  outlook  was  so  dreary  that  after  a  few  minutes  she  shut 
the  window,  shivering,  lighted  the  candles,  and  tried  to  read. 
But  she  was  in  such  a  nervous  state  that  she  uttered  a  little 
scream  when  Lucy,  bringing  her  supper,  knocked  at  the  outer 
door.  Very  much  disgusted  with  herself  for  this  display  of 
feminine  weakness,  she  would  not  even  allow  Lucy,  who  loved 
to  linger  about  when  she  had  any  little  service  to  perform  for 
"  Miss  Olivia,"  to  stay  for  a  few  minutes'  chat.  When  the 
supper  had  been  laid  on  the  table  in  the  outer  room,  and  the 
bright  little  maid  had  run  down-stairs,  Olivia  did  not,  as  usual, 
lock  the  outer  door  after  her.  She  felt  so  unaccountably  lone- 
ly and  restless  that  she  went  into  the  little  passage  outside  her 
two  rooms  and  set  the  outer  door  open,  so  as  to  feel  that  her 
connection  with  the  rest  of  the  human  life  in  the  house  was 
not  altogether  severed.  She  even  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
corridor  and  glanced  out  through  the  large  square  window  at 
the  end,  listening  all  the  while  for  some  sounds  of  household 
life  down-stairs.  But  in  this  east  wing  very  little  could  be 
heard,  and  this  evening  everything  seemed  to  Olivia  to  be  un- 
usually quiet. 

The  corridor  window  looked  out  over  fields,  showing  the 
farm  garden,  with  its  fruit  trees  and  vegetable  beds  on  the 
right,  and  barns  and  various  other  out-buildings  on  the  left. 
Right  underneath  was  a  neglected  patch  of  land — a  corner  of 
the  garden  not  considered  worth  cultivation.  Lying  among 
the  rank  grass  were  an  old  ladder  and  a  pile  of  boards,  which 
had  been  there  when  the  Denisons  took  the  farm  and  had  re- 
mained undisturbed  ever  since.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  Olivia, 
for  the  first  time,  how  alarmingly  easy  it  would  be  for  an  evilly 
disposed  person  to  place  the  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  to 


282  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

effect  an  entrance  through  the  window,  the  fastening  of  which 
she  noticed  was  broken,  and  had  evidently  been  so  a  long  time. 
Not  that  such  a  thing  was  likely  to  happen,  burglaries  being 
unheard-of  things  in  this  neighborhood.  Still,  the  idea  get 
such  firm  hold  of  her  excited  fancy  that,  two  hours  later, 
when  all  the  household  had  retired  to  rest,  she  came  out  of  her 
apartments  in  her  dressing-gown,  to  give  a  final  glance  out- 
side, and  to  make  sure  that  her  absurd  fears  were  as  ground- 
less as  she  told  herself  they  were. 

Opening  the  window  and  putting  her  head  out  into  the  driz- 
zling rain,  Olivia  saw,  in  the  gloom  of  the  misty  night,  a  dark 
object  creeping  stealthily  along  outside  the  garden  wall.  Just 
as  it  reached  that  part  of  the  wall  which  was  immediately  op- 
posite the  window,  a  watery  gleam  of  moonlight  showed 
through  the  clouds,  and  enabled  her  to  see  that  the  object  was 
a  man.  The  next  moment  she  saw  him  climb  over  into  the 
garden  beneath.  Still  keeping  close  to  the  wall,  he  crept 
rapidly  along  until  he  was  close  under  the  window.  Holding 
her  breath,  Olivia  watched  him  as  he  stooped  and  lifted  the 
ladder  from  the  ground.  Her  blood  suddenly  seemed  to  rush 
to  her  brain,  and  then  to  trickle  slowly  back  through  her  veins 
as  cold  as  ice. 

For  she  recognized  him. 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 

LIKE  all  persons  of  strong  nature,  Olivia  Denison  grew 
bolder  as  danger  came  nearer.  When  she  recognized  the  man 
in  the  garden,  underneath  the  corridor  window,  it  did  not 
occur  to  her  to  call  for  help;  but  all  her  energies  were  in- 
stantly concentrated  on  learning  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion. 
She  was  sure  that  she  had  not  been  seen.  As  noiselessly  as 
she  could  she  shut  the  window,  and  retreated  into  the  private 
passage  which  led  to  her  own  apartments.  There  she  waited, 
peeping  cautiously  out  under  cover  of  the  black  shadows  of  the 
corridor,  into  which  the  faint  moonlight  could  not  penetrate. 

She  heard  the  grinding  sound  made  by  the  ladder  as  it  was 
set  against  the  wall,  and  presently  she  saw  a  man's  head  ap- 
pear just  above  the  ledge  outside.  He  raised  his  hand,  gave 
three  taps  on  the  glass,  and  disappeared.  A  minute  later  he 
mounted  a  step  higher  than  before,  and  tapped  again.  Then, 
with  scarcely  an  instant's  more  delay,  he  pushed  up  the  win- 
dow slowly  and  noiselessly,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  wide  enough, 
put  one  leg  over  the  sill  and  stood  in  the  corridor. 

Olivia,  brave  as  she  was  by  nature,  was  transfixed  with 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  233 

alarm.  What  did  he  want  with  her?  What  shocking  confes- 
sion, what  horrible  entreaties,  had  he  come  to  make  to  her  like 
this,  in  the  middle  of  the  night?  If  she  could  have  shrieked 
aloud,  if  she  could  have  run  out  and  alarmed  the  household, 
she  would  have  done  so  now.  But  horror  had  paralyzed  her. 
The  voice  she  tried  to  use  gave  only  a  hoarse,  almost  inaudible 
rattle.  Her  limbs  were  rigid;  her  breath  came  and  went  in 
gasps,  like  that  of  a  person  dying  of  asthma.  She  could  only 
stand  and  stare  at  the  advancing  figure,  hoping  desperately 
that  the  first  words  he  uttered  would  break  this  spell  and  re- 
store her  to  herself.  Why  did  he  choose  the  night-time  to  come 
and  make  her  the  victim  of  his  guilty  confidences?  Were  they 
too  ghastly  to  make  by  day?  That  this  man  was  the  murderer 
of  Nellie  Mitchell  she  could  not  now  doubt;  the  demeanor  of 
his  every -day  life  was  utterly  changed;  there  was  guilt  ex- 
pressed in  every  furtive  movement.  All  her  respect  and  lik- 
ing were  transformed  into  loathing  and  fear;  she  almost 
crouched  against  the  wall  as  he  approached. 

He  reached  the  entrance  to  the  corridor  and  paused.  If  she 
could  only  keep  still  enough  for  him  to  pass  her!  Then  she 
could  escape  into  the  main  building  of  the  house,  and  have 
time  to  think  what  she  should  do.  But  he  stopped  short,  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  knock  at  the  door.  In  the  darkness 
he  could  not  see  that  it  was  open.  But  how,  Olivia  suddenly 
asked  herself,  did  he  know  there  was  a  door  there  at  all?  Al- 
though he  moved  slowly,  too,  it  was  with  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  knew  his  way  about  the  place.  Part  of  the  truth  flashed 
suddenly  into  her  mind;  he  had  been  there  before.  By  this 
time  he  had  discovered  that  the  door  was  open.  Passing  into 
the  corridor,  he  shut  the  door,  turned  the  key,  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket.  As  he  did  so  he  touched  Olivia,  but  did  not  ap- 
pear to  know  it.  Now  thoroughly  alarmed,  she  flew  along 
the  passage  into  her  bedroom,  and  was  in  time  to  lock  the 
door  before  she  heard  his  footsteps  in  the  outer  apartment. 
There  was  no  lock  to  the  door  between  the  two  rooms.  No 
one  was  likely  to  hear  her  if  she  shrieked  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows. Before  many  minutes  were  over  she  felt  that  she  should 
have  to  face  him. 

She  flew  across  the  bedroom  floor  to  blow  out  the  candle, 
thinking  that  in  the  darkness  she  would  have  a  better  chance 
of  escape.  As  she  did  so  she  stumbled  against  a  chair,  which 
fell  down  with  a  loud  noise.  A  moment  later  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  inner  door.  The  girl's  heart  stood  still.  She  remained 
motionless,  and  gave  no  answer.  The  knock  was  repeated. 
Still  she  was  silent.  A  third  time  came  the  knock,  and  then 


234  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

a  low,  hoarse  whisper,  of  one  word  only,  startled  her,  and 
came  as  a  revelation: 

"  Nellie!" 

This  was  the  manner  in  which,  years  ago,  he  had  visited  the 
girl  whose  love  had  ended  by  wearying  him  so  fatally.  By 
what  means  he  had  forgotten  the  intervening  years  she  did 
not  know,  but  Olivia  recognized  at  once  that  it  was  not  she  of 
whom  he  was  in  search.  The  knowledge  restored  in  a  moment 
all  her  courage.  If,  as  she  supposed,  fear  of  discovery  had 
turned  his  brain,  his  was  a  madness  with  which  she  felt  she 
could  cope.  After  only  one  moment's  hesitation,  she  snatched 
up  one  of  the  candles,  and  unlocking  the  door  she  had  secured, 
passed  through  the  passage  into  the  ad  j  OLD  ing  room. 

"  Mr.  Brander!"  said  she,  in  a  voice  which  scarcely  trem- 
bled. 

She  had  to  repeat  her  words  three  or  four  times  before  he 
moved  from  the  other  door.  At  last  he  turned  very  slowly, 
and  Olivia,  raising  the  candle  high,  looked  curiously,  and  not 
wholly  without  fear,  into  his  face. 

His  eyes  were  closed;  his  breathing  was  heavy.  He  was 
asleep! 

There  flashed  through  her  mind  the  remembrance  of  what 
the  Vicar  of  Rishton  had  said  about  somnambulism,  and  the 
strange  instance  of  it  which  had  occurred  in  his  family.  It 
was  clear  to  her  that  the  excitement  occasioned  by  Ned  Mit- 
chell's obstinate  determination  had  preyed  upon  the  mind  of 
the  murderer,  and  led  him  at  last  to  perform  in  sleep  an  action 
which  had  been  an  habitual  one  with  him  eleven  years  before. 

In  spite  of  the  horror  of  this  weird  discovery,  Olivia's  fears 
disappeared  at  once.  She  thought  she  might,  without  waking 
him,  persuade  him  to  go  back  as  he  had  come.  If  he  did 
wake,  she  knew  he  would  not  hurt  her.  She  began  in  a  low, 
intentionally  monotonous  voice. 

' '  I  think  you  had  better  go  back  to-night  It  is  getting 
very  late;  it  is  almost  daylight." 

As  before,  she  had  to  repeat  her  words  before  he  grasped 
the  sense  of  them. 

Then  he  repeated  in  a  whisper,  and  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing soothing  in  the  sound  of  her  voice: 

"Go  back.     Yes,  go  back." 

"  I'll  give  you  a  light  Come  along,"  she  went  on,  coax- 
ingly. 

And  without  a  moment's  delay  she  led  the  way  out  into  the 
passage.  Much  to  her  relief,  he  followed,  at  the  same  slow, 
heavy  pace. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  235 

"  Now/*  she  said,  when  they  had  reached  the  outer  door, 
'*  give  me  the  key,  please." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  obediently,  and  produced  the  key, 
which  she,  overjoyed,  almost  snatched  from  his  hand.  The 
noise  she  made  in  her  excitement,  as  she  opened  the  door, 
seemed  to  disturb  him,  for  he  began  to  move  restlessly,  like  a 
person  on  the  point  of  waking.  Once  in  the  corridor,  how- 
ever, Olivia  was  bold;  she  passed  her  hands  several  times  slow- 
ly down  his  arms,  murmuring  in  a  low,  soothing  tone  injunc- 
tions to  him  to  get  home  quickly.  This  treatment  succeeded 
perfectly.  His  manner  lost  its  momentary  restlessness,  and  it 
was  in  the  same  stolid  way  as  he  came  that  he  got  out  on  the 
ladder,  descended,  replaced  the  ladder  in  the  long  grass,  and 
climbed  over  the  wall. 

Olivia  watched  his  retreating  figure  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight, 
and  then,  feeling  sick  and  cold,  slunk  back  into  her  rooms, 
not  forgetting  to  lock  the  outer  door  of  the  passage  safely  be- 
hind her.  Like  most  women,  however  brave,  when  they  have 
been  through  an  exciting  crisis,  she  felt  exhausted,  limp, 
almost  hysterical.  She  staggered  as  she  entered  the  bedroom, 
and  it  was  with  a  reeling  brain  that  she  walked  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  unable  to  sleep,  unable  even  to  rest.  She  knew 
the  mystery  now,  and  she  felt  that  the  knowledge  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

Next  morning  her  appearance,  when  she  came  down  late  to 
breakfast,  was  so  much  affected  by  the  awful  night  she  had 
passed  that  even  the  children  wondered  what  was  the  matter 
with  her.  Mr.  Denison,  believing  it  to  be  the  result  of  his 
avoidance  of  her  the  evening  before,  was  cut  to  the  heart  with 
remorse,  while  his  wife,  alarmed  at  the  change  in  the  girl, 
altered  her  tone,  and  did  her  best  to  be  kind  to  her.  Olivia 
could  not  eat.  Her  cheeks  were  almost  livid;  her  great  eyes 
seemed  to  fill  her  face;  the  hand  she  held  out  to  be  shaken  was 
cold,  clammy,  and  trembling.  Her  amiable  little  half-sister, 
Beatrix,  saw  an  opening  for  a  disagreeable  remark,  and  made 
use  of  it. 

"  Mr.  Williams  wouldn't  say  you  were  pretty  if  he  could 
see  you  now,"  said  she.  "  Would  he,  mamma?" 

Like  most  children,  she  was  quick  enough  to  detect  how  in- 
harmonious were  the  relations  between  her  mother  and  her 
step-sister.  She  was  surprised  to  find,  however,  that  for  once 
she  received  no  sympathy  from  the  quarter  whence  she  ex- 
pected it. 

"  Be  quiet,  Beatrix,  and  don't  be  rude,"  said  Mrs.  Denison, 
sharply,  with  a  glance  at  Olivia,  on  whom  she  thought  that  the 


236  ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOVSHEB. 

reference  to  the  supposed  cause  of  her  distress  would  have  some 
sudden  and  violent  effect. 

"  Can't  you  keep  those  children  in  better  order,  Marian?" 
asked  Mr.  Denison,  peevishly.  "  Their  rudeness  is  getting 
quite  intolerable. ' ' 

However,  Olivia  scarcely  heard  this  little  discussion,  and 
was  in  no  way  moved  by  it.  But  when  the  talk  turned  to  the 
proposed  restoration  of  St.  Cuthbert's  and  from  that  to  the 
persons  interested  in  it,  she  grew  suddenly  very  still,  and  sat 
looking  down  at  her  plate,  listening  to  each  word  with  fear  of 
what  the  next  would  be. 

"  I  wonder  how  the  vicar  likes  to  see  his  wife  about  so  con- 
stantly with  another  man,  even  if  he  is  his  own  brother,"  said 
Mrs.  Denison,  who,  in  spite  of  her  experience  as  a  governess, 
was  one  of  those  people  who  think  it  doesn't  matter  what  sub- 
jects you  discuss  before  children,  because  "  they  don't  under- 
stand." "  I'm  sure  the  last  week  or  so  I've  scarcely  seen  one 
without  the  other." 

"  Well,  now,  do  you  know,  I  thought  it  was  awfully  good- 
natured  of  her.  You  know  the  stories  that  have  been  Hying 
about  lately.  I'm  sure  1  don't  pretend  to  say  whether  there's 
any  truth  in  them  or  not;  still  they  have  been  flying  about. " 

"  And  not  without  some  ground,  you  may  depend,"  said 
Mrs.  Denison,  tartly. 

While  avoiding  the  subject  which  she  supposed  to  be  the 
cause  of  Olivia's  present  distress,  her  step-mother  could  not 
resist  the  opportunity  of  giving  that  headstrong  young  lady  a 
few  gentle  thrusts  on  the  subject  of  her  "  fancy  for  mur- 
derers. "  Mr.  Denison  glanced  from  his  wife  to  his  daughter, 
who,  by  putting  strong  constraint  on  herself,  appeared  not  to 
notice  what  was  being  said. 

"  Well,  and  as  she  must  know  the  rights  of  the  story,  it 
seems  to  me  all  the  kinder  in  Mrs.  Brander  to  take  any  notice 
0f  him  now,  when  he's  under  a  cloud,  as  it  were." 

Mrs.  Denison  uttered  a  little  sound  significant  of  doubt  and 
scorn. 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  everybody  else  will  put  as  kind  an 
interpretation  upon  her  conduct,"  she  said,  dryly.  "  Only 
last  Tuesday  1  met  them  as  I  walked  back  from  the  Towers. 
They  were  sitting  in  that  little  cart  sort  of  thing  Mrs.  Brander 
drives — not  at  all  the  right  kind  of  turnout  for  a  clergyman's 
wife,  in  my  opinion — and  talking  together  so — well,  so  confi- 
dentially— that  they  took  no  notice  of  me  whatever." 

"  Didn't  see  you,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Denison,  shortly. 

"It  may  have  been  that,  certainly,"  assented  his  wife,  in- 


ST.   CTTHUKRT'S  TOWER.  237 

credulously.  "Or  it  may  be  that  they  are  not  too  much  lost 
to  shame  to  avoid  the  eye  of  a  lady  whom  they  respect  when 
they  feel  they  are  not  behaving  quite  correctly." 

"Kubbish!"  said  Mr.  Denison,  shortly. 

It  was  so  seldom  that  the  so-called  head  of  the  house  vent- 
ured so  near  to  an  expression  of  adverse  opinion  that  there  was 
a  short  silence,  which  his  wife  broke  in  a  dangerously  dignified 
manner. 

"•  Perhaps/'  she  began,  with  strong  emphasis,  "  when  the 
whole  truth  comes  to  light  concerning  his  relations  with  other 
ladies,  my  opinion  ou  the  matter  will  not  be  considered  '  rub- 
bish ''after  all. " 

Reginald,  with  the  delightful  relish  of  an  innocent  child  for 
conversation  not  intended  for  his  ears,  had  left  off  making 
patterns  on  the  table-cloth  with  the  mustard-spoon,  in  order 
to  listen  and  watch  with  his  mouth  open.  He  now  broke  in 
with  a  happy  sense  that  he  was  making  mischief. 

"  Oh,  look,  mamma,  what  a  funny  color  Olivia's  face  has 
gone!"  cried  he,  pointing  to  her  with  the  mustard-spoon. 

The  girl  got  up  and  left  the  room.  Her  father,  who  could 
not  bear  to  see  any  one  unhappy,  was  miserable  at  the  thought 
that  he  himself  was  partly  the  cause  of  his  darling  daughter's 
grief. 

"  Olivia,  my  dear  child,  come  down — come  here,"  he  called 
after  her  from  the  hall  as  she  fled  upstairs. 

She  never  could  resist  any  appeal  from  him,  so  she  crept 
down  again,  unwillingly  enough. 

"  Oh,  that  woman,  that  woman!  Papa,  I  must  go  away,  1 
can't  live  with  her,"  she  whispered,  as  she  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  and  received  his  caress  and  incoherent  attempts 
at  comfort. 

"  Well,  dear,  what  can  I  do?"  he  whispered,  apologetically, 
back.  "  You  see,  you  were  such  a  little  thing  when  your 
mother  died,  and  1  hate  a  household  without  a  woman  in  it,  so 
that  even — " 

"  Even  an  objectionable  woman  is  better  than  none,"  sug- 
gested Olivia,  mischievously. 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear,  I  didn't  say  that,"  whispered  he,  hur- 
riedly. 

"  No,  papa,  you  don't  dare,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  touch  of 
her  old  archness.  "  I  really  think  that  when  a  man  with  chil- 
dren marries  a  second  time,  he  ought  to  drown  the  first  lot  in 
mercy  to  them. " 

Poor  Mr.  Denison  looked  down  at  her  ruefully. 


238  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE. 

"  My  dear,  I  hope  you  didn't  mean  that,"  was  all  he  vent- 
ured to  say. 

"Yes,  I  did." 

Here  Mr.  Denison  perceived  an  opening  for  a  suggestion 
which  his  wife,  of  late,  had  been  constantly  urging  him  to 
make.  Not  being  quite  sure  how  his  daughter  would  take  it, 
he  hurried  it  out  in  a  shamefaced  manner  without  looking  at 
her. 

"  Since  you  don't  get  on  very  well  together,  I  wonder  you 
don't  take  the  chance  of  getting  a  nice  home  of  your  own; 
you  know  you  could  if  you  liked." 

"  What,  by  wearing  little  Freddie  Williams  forever  on  my 
watch-chain?"  cried  Olivia,  turning  off  the  suggestion  as  a 
joke  to  avoid  paining  her  father  by  expressing  the  disgust  she 
felt. 

"Well,  my  child,  you  know  I  shouldn't  press  upon  you 
anything  that  wouldn't  make  you  happy;  but  if  you  wait  for 
a  husband  worthy  of  you,  you'll  die  an  old  maid." 

"  And  if  you'll  go  on  living  till  you're  about  a  hundred  and 
five  to  keep  me  company,  papa,  I'll  be  the  oldest  old  maid  in 
England  with  pleasure,"  said  she,  affectionately,  as  she  kissed 
his  cheek  and  ran  away  upstairs. 

She  had  some  work  to  do  this  morning,  work  for  which  she 
must  drive  all  thought  of  last  night's  adventure  out  of  her 
head.  As  soon  as  she  reached  hur  own  room  she  unlocked  the 
drawer  in  which  she  kept  her  trinkets,  and  spreading  them  out 
before  her  on  the  dressing-table,  she  mentally  passed  them  in 
review  to  decide  which  were  the  most  likely  to  be  saleable. 
Not  a  bad  collection  for  a  young  girl,  they  formed,  though 
Olivia,  ignorant  as  she  was  about  the  value  of  jewelery, 
thought  how  poor  they  looked  from  the  point  of  view  at  which 
she  was  now  considering  them.  A  pair  of  turquois  and  pearl 
ear-rings  and  brooch  to  match,  a  heavy  gold  bracelet,  a,  set  of 
garnets  and  pearls  of  quaint,  old-fashioned  design,  a  handsome 
silver  chatelain  watch,  a  quantity  of  silver  bangles,  a  few  very 
modest-looking  rings,  a  diamond  arrow  brooch,  and  a  massive 
gold  necklet.  Everything  but  the  arrow,  which  had  been  a 
present  from  her  father  on  her  eighteenth  birthday,  looked,  in 
a  strictly  commercial  light,  clumsy  or  out  of  date.  The  arrow 
must  be  sacrificed,  she  told  herself  with  a  sigh;  so  must  the 
gold  necklet  and  bracelet,  which  she  rightly  judged  to  be  next 
in  value.  If  she  could  only  sell  these  things,  and  get  ten  or 
twelve  pounds  for  them,  she  could  pay  off  a  fair  installment  of 
her  father's  debt  to  Fred  Williams  immediately,  and  she  must 
trust  to  luck  and  her  own  determination  for  the  rest.  So  she 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  239 

made  a  parcel  of  the  trinkets  she  had  chosen,  and,  at  the  last 
moment,  packed  also  the  turquois  and  pearl  set;  then,  dress- 
ing hastily,  she  slipped  out  of  the  house,  and  started  at"  a  rapid 
pace  on  her  way  to  Matherham. 

Before  she  reached  the  high-road,  however,  she  was  met  by 
Fred  Williams,  who  was  sauntering  about,  pipe  in  mouth,  at 
the  point  where  the  roads  met,  on  the  chance  of  meeting  her. 
He  surveyed  her  with  a  sidelong  look  of  unwilling  admiration. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Denison,"  he  said,  curtly,  pulling  off 
his  cap  in  a  sort  of  grudging  manner.  "  I  suppose  you  have 
nothing  fresh  to  say  to  me  this  morning?" 

"  Not  at  present,  though  I  may  have  by  and  by/'  said  she, 
lightly. 

"  Oh,  well,  er — do  you  know  whether  your  father  is  likely 
to  be  about  this  morning?  1  want  to  see  him  on  business.'* 

Olivia  looked  at  him  with  great  contempt  from  under  her 
sweeping  black  eyelashes. 

"  He  is  about,  of  course;  but  I  don't  think  you  need  trouble 
yourself  to  see  him,  for  I  have  a  message  to  you  from  him. 
It  is  this:  the  first  installment  of  the  money  he  owes  you  will 
be  paid  to-day,  and  the  remainder  very  shortly.  And  he  is 
very  sorry  to  have  put  you  to  any  inconvenience  by  accepting 
the  loan." 

With  which  speech,  and  a  low  bow,  Olivia  left  Mr.  Williams 
to  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  society. 

Then  on  she  sped  toward  Matherham,  not  by  way  of  the 
wood  and  St.  Cuthbert's,  but  by  the  shorter  road  that  went 
past  the  Towers.  A  great  bare  building  it  was,  standing 
ostentatiously  on  very  high  ground,  with  a  spire  here,  a  min- 
aret there,  and  various  irregular  erections  springing  up  from 
the  roof  to  make  good  its  name.  Olivia  laughed  to  herself, 
and  wished  the  lady  who  might  ultimately  obtain  the  hand  of 
her  mean-spirited  admirer  joy  of  her  bargain.  She  was  not 
unhappy;  the  fearful  nature  of  her  discovery  of  the  night  be- 
fore had  shaken  her  out  of  the  depression  from  which  she  had 
lately  been  suffering.  She  was  excited,  full  of  indignation  and 
of  energy;  her  head  full  of  wild  surmises,  of  fears  connected 
with  the  approaching  crisis.  As  if  trying  to  keep  pace  with 
her  fantastic  thoughts,  her  feet  seemed  to  fly  along  the  ground. 
The  few  persons  she  passed  stared  at  or  courtesied  to  her  with- 
out any  acknowledgment;  she  saw  no  one  but  the  people  in  her 
thoughts. 

Suddenly  she  was  roused  out  of  her  wild  reverie  by  hearing 
her  own  name  called  in  sharp  tones.  She  looked  down  from 
the  high  path-way  alongside  the  hedge  into  the  road,  which  at 


240  ST.  CUTHBERT'S   TOWER. 

this  point  was  some  five  feet  below.  There  she  saw  the  vicar- 
age pony- carriage,  containing  Mrs.  Brander,  who  was  driving, 
with  Vernon  sitting  by  her  side.  It  was  the  lady  who  had 
called  to  Olivia.  Having  pulled  up  the  ponies  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  she  now  beckoned  to  the  girl  in  an  impatient,  im- 
perious manner  to  come  down. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Olivia,  coldly,  without  attempting 
to  leave  the  path-way.  Her  cheeks  had  grown  in  an  instant 
deadly  white  on  seeing  who  was  the  lady's  companion;  but  she 
did  not  glance  at  him. 

"  1  can't  stop  this  morning,  Mrs.  Brander;  I'm  in  a  great 
hurry,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  while  her  heart  beat 
violently,  and  she  felt  that  if  the  interview  lasted  a  minute 
longer  she  should  not  be  able  to  stand  without  support. 

' '  But  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you — very  im- 
portant. I  really  must  beg  you  to  give  me  a  moment;  and,  if 
you  like,  I  will  drive  you  into  Matherham  myself. " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Olivia,  hastily. 

"  One  minute,  then,  I  beg,  Miss  Denison." 

The  imperious  lady's  voice  had  suddenly  broken  and  become 
imploring.  Olivia,  with  downcast  eyes  and  feet  that  tottered 
under  her,  found  a  convenient  place  for  a  descent  into  the 
road,  and  the  next  minute  stood  by  the  pony-carriage,  on  the 
side  where  Mrs.  Brander  was  sitting.  She  neither  looked  up 
nor  spoke,  but  left  the  opening  of  the  conversation  to  the 
vicar's  wife,  whose  hands,  as  she  held  the  reins,  shook  with  a 
nervousness  altogether  unusual  with  her.  With  strange  diffi- 
dence, too,  Mrs.  Brander  hesitated  before  she  spoke. 

"  You  are  walking  into  Matherham?"  she  asked,  at  last. 
'Yes,  Mrs.  Brander."         * 

"  You  are  sure  you  won't  let  me  drive  you  in?" 

"  Quite  sure,  thank  you." 

"  Vernon,  you  know,  would  get  down;  he'd  rather  walk, 
I'm  certain." 

Olivia's  face  became  suddenly  crimson. 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  turning  Mr.  Brander  out,"  she  said, 
coldly. 

"  1  should  be  delighted,"  murmured  Vernon,  in  a  low  tone. 

In  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  retain  her  self-command,  Olivia 
shivered  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  She  felt,  although  she 
never  once  looked  at  the  face  of  either,  that  both  the  man  and 
the  woman  were  watching  her  intently.  They  had  some  sus- 
picion of  the  knowledge  she  had  so  strangely  obtained,  she 
was  sure.  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Mrs.  Brander  spoke 
again. 


ST.   CUTHBEET'S  TOWEE.  241 

"  You  don't  look  so  well  as  usual  this  morning,  Miss  Deni- 
son,"  she  said,  not  quite  able  to  keep  curiosity  and  anxiety  out 
of  her  tone.  "  You  are  quite  pale.  We  miss  your  lovely 
roses." 

"  I  have  had  a  bad  night/'  said  Olivia,  shortly,  and  with  a 
sudden  determination  that  it  would  be  better  to  let  them  know 
all  she  had  discovered 

The  effort  Mrs.  Brander  made  to  retain  her  usual  calmness 
and  coldness  was  piteous  to  see.  Her  beautiful  features  quiv- 
ered; her  great  black  eyes  were  dilated  with  apprehension. 

"  A  bad  night?"  she  repeated,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes.  1  was  frightened.  A  man  got  into  my  sitting- 
room.  ' ' 

Neither  of  her  hearers  made  any  but  the  faintest  attempt  to 
affect  astonishment. 

"  It  must  have  alarmed  you  horribly,"  said  Mrs.  Brander 
with  blanched  lips.  "  Did  you  call  any  one?" 

"No." 

Over  the  face  of  the  vicar's  wife  came  an  expression  of  great 
relief. 

"  Have  you  told  any  one?" 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  mentioned  it." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Have  you  any  idea — who — the  man — was?" 

"  I  recognized  him  at  once,  before  he  got  in  at  the  window. 
He  spoke  to  me,  but  he  did  not  know  who  I  was.  He  was 
asleep." 

"  He  spoke  to  you?" 

"  Yes.     He  addressed  me  as  '  Nellie. ' } 

Olivia  had  dropped  her  eyes,  but  she  heard  Mrs.  Brander's 
breath  coming  quickly,  as  if  she  were  choking.  The  girl  put 
her  hand  out  impulsively  on  the  arm  of  the  elder  lady,  and 
whispered,  without  looking  up: 

"  You  made  me  tell  you.  And,  after  all,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? I  think  you  know." 

She  felt  her  hand  seized  with  a  convulsive  pressure. 

"  You  will  say  nothing?"  Then  Mrs.  Brander  snatched  her 
hand  away.  "  No,  no;  it  is  asking  too  much,  of  course.  And 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  of  no  use. " 

"  At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Brander,  nobody  but  you  will  ever  hear 
the  story  from  me. " 

She  ignored  Vernon,  as  she  had  ignored  him  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  interview.  Mrs.  Brander  drew  a  labored  sigh. 

"1  trust  you,"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  *'A  woman 
can  keep  a  secret  as  well  as  a  man,  I  know. " 


242  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  Oh,  yes/*  said  Olivia,  simply.  "  Now  you  will  let  me  go, 
will  you  not?" 

She  was  frank,  honest;  but  she  was  not  cordial;  scarcely 
even  kind.  When  Mrs.  Brander  pressed  her  hand  again,  how- 
ever, she  returned  the  pressure  with  a  firm  clasp.  Then,  still 
without  a  glance  at  Vernon,  she  bowed  and  wished  the  vicar's 
wife  "  good-morning,"  and,  turning,  resumed  her  walk  toward 
Matherham.  She  had  not  gone  many  yards  before  she  quick- 
ened her  pace  still  more,  hearing  footsteps  she  recognized  be- 
hind and  then  beside  her. 

It  was  Vernon  Brander. 

For  some  time  he  walked  on  in  silence  by  her  side,  not  dar- 
ing to  address  her.  At  last  he  said  humbly,  imploringly: 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  me?" 

No  answer. 

' '  Have  you  forgotten  all  you  once  said  to  me  about  friend- 
ship?" 

"  No,"  she  answered  in  a  frightened,  constrained  voice,  still 
without  looking  at  him. 

"  Remember,  what  you  saw  last  night  was  no  worse  than 
what  you  already  believed. " 

"  Yes  it  was!"  panted  Olivia.  "  It  was  worse,  much  worse 
— to  see — to  hear.  It  was  something  I  shall  never  forget.  But 
don't  let  us  speak  of  it." 

"  But  is  it  to  make  this  difference,  that  you  will  never  speak 
to  me  again?" 

"  It  is  to  make  no  difference;  you  heard  me  say  so.  You 
wish  it;  she  wishes  it.  I  have  promised." 

**  I  take  you  at  your  word.  If  you  had  discovered  nothing 
you  would  have  let  me  go  into  Matherham  with  you,  and  you 
would  have  told  me  the  object  of  your  going.  jWUl  you  now?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,  Mr.  Brander."  In  spite  of  herself,  her 
tone  was  more  formal  than  usual  "  I  am  going  to  get  some 
money  to  repay  a  loan  from  that  wretched  little  Fred  Will- 
iams. " 

"  To  your  father,  of  course.  And  I  suppose,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  the  little  parcel  she  carried  in  her  hand,  "  you  are 
going  to  sell  some  trinkets  of  your  own  to  do  so." 

"To  help  to  do  so,"  answered  Olivia,  with  a  blush  and  a 
look  of  surprise  at  his  perspicacity.  "  The  whole  sum  is  much 
more  than  anything  of  mine  could  fetch." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  how  much?" 

"  Thirty  pounds!" 

"  And  will  you,  as  a  pledge  of  what  you  said — that  you  will 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  243 

forget  everything — do  for  me  what  I  know  you  would  not  do 
for  any  other  man?" 

11  What  is  that?" 

"  Let  me  lend  you  the  money.  I  spend  nothing.  I  have  a 
considerable  sum  saved,  and  it  will  do  me  a  pleasure — such  a 
pleasure!"  he  added,  earnestly,  below  his  breath.  "  It  would 
be  a  mark  of  confidence  which  would  prove  to  me,  whatever  I 
may  have  done  wrong — and  my  conscience  is  not  too  clear,  I 
know,  as  you  know — prove  to  me  that  you  have  a  little  com- 
passion, a  little  kindness,  for  me  still." 

Without  answering  in  words,  Olivia,  who  was  trembling  vio- 
lently, took  his  hand,  pressed  it  quickly  for  one  moment  in 
hers,  and  let  it  drop  hastily,  as  if  she  had  been  too  bold. 

Then,  without  the  exchange  of  a  single  word  more,  they 
walked  through  the  narrow,  hilly  streets  of  Matherham,  which 
they  had  now  reached,  until  they  came  to  the  bank  where 
Vernon  kept  an  account.  Olivia  walked  on  while  he  went  into 
the  building;  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  overtook  her  and  put 
an  envelope  into  her  hand.  She  did  not  thank  him;  he  did 
not  give  her  time. 

"1  am  very  grateful,"  he  said,  simply;  "I — 1  can't  say 
any  mere  now.  Good-bye. " 

Olivia  looked  up  and  spoke  with  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

Then  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  with  the  long,  sad 
look  of  a  farewell,  and  she  was  not  surprised  at  his  next  words. 

"  T.  dare  say,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "  that  I  shall  be 
going  away  from  here  before  long;  I  dare  say  1  shall  have  to 
— when  the  tower  is  built,"  he  added  in  a  whisper,  looking 
down.  "  No,  don't  sa$  anything — I  couldn't  bear  it." 

But  Olivia,  though  she  tried,  could  utter  no  word.  She 
wrung  his  hand  and  looked  straight  into  his  face  with  an  ex- 
pression of  passionate  sympathy  and  despair.  Then,  without 
another  word,  they  parted. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

OLIVIA  hurried  back  toward  the  farm  with  the  little  packet 
in  her  hand  which  was  to  release  her  father  from  his  hateful 
indebtedness  to  Fred  Williams.  It  was  true  it  rendered  her 
herself  indebted  to  somebody  else;  but,  with  a  woman's  per- 
versity, she  preferred  the  greater  evil  to  the  less.  It  was 
rather  an  awkward  matter,  however,  to  acquaint  her  father 
with  what  she  had  done,  especially  as  she  found  him  in  the 
lowest  depths  of  despondency. 


244  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,  my  dear;  don't  speak  to  me/*  was  his 
greeting  to  his  daughter  when  she  pounced  upon  him,  with  a 
light-hearted  laugh,  from  behind  the  hedge  of  one  of  his  own 
cornfields. 

He  was  contemplating  the  ripening  crop  with  a  most  rueful 
face. 

"  Why  not,  papa?  Perhaps  I  may  have  some  good  news  for 
you." 

"  Good  news!  Oh,  no,"  he  answered,  dolefully,  shaking 
his  head.  "  It  must  be  for  somebody  else  if  you  have  any 
good  news.  So  go  away,  or  I  may  be  cross;  and  I  don't  want 
to  speak  crossly  to  you,  my  darling." 

There  was  not  much  fear  of  such  a  thing,  evidently;  for 
when  she  persisted  in  coming  to  him,  and  giving  him  a  hearty 
kiss,  the  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  began  immediately  to  clear 
away. 

"  It's  all  your  fault,  you  minx,"  said  he,  looking  affection- 
ately at  the  girl's  bonny  face.  "  You've  turned  the  heads  of 
all  che  lads  about  here,  and  then  it's  your  poor  old  father  that 
they  '  wreak  their  vengeance  on,'  as  the  melodramas  say." 

"  Why,  papa,"  said  the  girl,  blushing,  "  who's  been  teasing 
you  now?  Produce  him,  and  let  me  wither  him  up  with  a 
glance." 

"  Well,  the  first  thing  I  heard  this  morning  is  that  the  old 
brute,  John  Oldshaw,  has  been  making  all  sorts  of  mischief 
about  me  to  Lord  Stannington's  agent — says  I'm  ruining  the 
land,  and  all  that;  and  it's  all  because  he's  angry  at  poor 
Mat's  humble  admiration  for  you,  I  know.  He  says  I'm  not 
fit  to  be  a  farmer.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

The  enormity  of  this  allegation  made  Mr.  Denison  quite 
unable  to  proceed.  But  Olivia  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"  I  think,  papa,  that  if  all  Mr.  Oldshaw's  statements  were 
as  veracious  as  that,  he  would  be  a  much  honester  man  than 
he  is." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  child?" 

"  That,  if  the  whole  world  had  been  thoroughly  scoured  to 
find  the  one  man  most  unsuitable  for  the  occupation  of  farm- 
ing, they  could  not  have  done  better  than  light  on  you." 

"  Olivia,  I'm  surprised  at  you!"  said  her  father,  assuming 
a  tone  of  great  dignity  mingled  with  indignation. 

"  Ah,  you  may  well  be  surprised  to  find  a  girl  with  as  much 
common  sense  as  a  man,"  retorted  she,  merrily.  For  since 
her  return  from  Matherham  her  spirits  had  risen  in  an  extraor- 
dinary manner.  "  Now,  papa,  look  at  John  Oldshaw.  He's 
a  perfect  type  of  a  successful  farmer.  And  he's  mean,  and 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  245 

he's  vulgar,  and  he's  industrious,  and  lie's  economical;  while 
you,  pardon  me,  are  none  of  those  things.  I  don't  say  that 
all  good  farmers  are  like  John  Oldshaw,  but  I'm  certain  none 
of  them  are  a  bit  like  you.  And  if  he  can  persuade  you  that 
you'll  never  do  anything  at  farming  but  lose  your  money,  and 
catch  cold  looking  at  oats  that  won't  ripen  and  turnips  that 
won't  come  up,  he'll  do  you  a  very  great  service." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  her  father,  not  quite  certain 
whether  to  be  amused  or  offended  by  her  wicked  plain  speak- 
ing, "  you  don't  understand  these  things.  Women  never  do, 
of  course.  It's  not  their  province,  and  we  don't  expect  it  of 
them."  The  poor  old  fellow's  tone  grew  more  confident  when 
he  got  into  these  mild  platitudes.  "  John  Oldshaw  has  always 
shown  himself  jealous  of  me:  firstly,  because  I'm  a  gentle- 
man; and,  secondly,  because  I  conduct  my  farming  on  differ- 
ent principle?  from  his." 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  Olivia,  demurely,  "  on  very  different 
principles.  He  gets  large  crops  and  you  get  small  ones.  And 
John  Oldshaw  wants  to  turn  you  out  and  apply  his  principles 
to  your  land.  And  I  wish  you  would  let  him." 

Mr.  Denison  sighed.  He  could  not  quite  hide  from  himself 
that  there  were  grains  of  truth  and  good  sense  in  his  daughter's 
suggestions.  But  the  secret  admission  made  him  impatient 
and  irritable. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  turning  upon  her,  "  I'm  not  likely 
to  get  on  here  or  anywhere  while  my  people  insult  the  friends 
who  would  help  me  to  tide  over  the  bad  time." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I've  insulted  Fred  Williams,  papa?" 
asked  Olivia,  who  was  too  straightforward  to  allow  the  talk  to 
be  carried  on  by  innuendoes. 

"  Well,  and  what  if  I  do?"  asked  Mr.  Denison,  taken 
aback.  For  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  would  walk 
round  about  a  fact  forever  without  facing  it. 

"  Has  the  little  reptile  been  worrying  you  about  the  money 
he  lent  you?" 

"Reptile!"  echoed  Mr.  Denison,  trying  to  evade  the  ques- 
tion. *'  That  is  a  strong  word  for  a  young  lady  to  use,  my 
dear.  Not  but  what  I  have  been  disappointed  in  that  young 
fellow.  He  seemed  such  a  generous,  open-hearted  lad  that  1 
own  he  induced  me  to  break  my  rule  and  allow  him  to  accom- 
modate me  in  a  little  difficulty  I  was  in — " 

"  And  are  you  out  of  the  difficulty,  papa?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  am,  in  a  sense,  out  of  that  one.  But 
difficulties  have  such  a  way  of  clinging  together;  where  they've 
been  once  they  come  again." 


246  ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER. 

"  And  this  wretched  creature  has  been  worrying  you,  then?" 

"  Well,  he  spoke  to  me  about  you  in  such  a  way  that  I  was 
mad  with  myself  for  having  allowed  him  to  oblige  me. ' ' 

"  I  think  1  can  free  you  from  that  obligation,  papa/'  said 
she,  gently.  "  Only  you  mustn't  ask  where  the  money  came 
from." 

"  What?"  cried  he,  in  astonishment.  "  My  dear  child,  you 
are  dreaming.  I  owe  him  thirty  pounds." 

"Look  here." 

She  opened  her  little  packet,  and  unfolded  before  him  six 
five-pound  notes. 

"  But,  Olivia,  I  can't  take  these  from  you  without  knowing 
how  you  got  them,"  said  her  father,  trying  to  assume  a  rather 
severe  paternal  air. 

"  It's  very  simple:  I  went  to  Matherham,  followed  a  rich- 
looking  old  gentleman  into  a  quiet  street,  knocked  him  down, 
and  robbed  him,"  she  answered,  laughing.  "  But  you  needn't 
have  any  qualms  of  conscience  about  the  proceeds  of  the  deed, 
for  I'm  going  to  hand  them  over  to  Fred  Williams  myself, 
with  a  message  from  you — which  1  shall  make  up." 

"  But,  Olivia,  I  really  can  not  permit — " 

"  It's  too  late  now;  the  power  of  permission  is  denied  you. 
But,  remember,  when  you  next  meet  that  miserable  tittle 
goose,  you  can  hold  up  your  head  and  snap  your  fingers  at 
him,  for  there  will  be  no  obligation  between  you  any  longer." 

She  nodded  good-bye  to  him  very  brightly,  checked  his  ex- 
postulations with  a  kiss,  and  ran  off  over  the  fields  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Towers. 

For  Olivia  was  feverishly  anxious  to  pay  off  the  debt,  and 
she  had  little  doubt  that  she  would  find  Fred  lounging  on  his 
father's  lawn,  softening  what  brains  he  had  by  the  help  of 
some  fluid  or  other,  and  a  strong  cigar.  She  met  him,  how- 
ever, before  she  reached  the  gate  of  the  Towers.  He  had  just 
come  from  Matherham  in  a  hansom,  and  was  quarreling  with 
the  cabman  about  his  fare;  but  when  he  caught  sight  of  Olivia 
he  changed  his  tone,  and  threw  the  man  a  handful  of  silver 
with  an  ostentatious  air.  Then  he  came  up  to  her  with  a 
manner  full  of  exaggerated  respect,  and  an  expression  of  face 
in  which  the  girl  instantly  detected  a  good  deal  of  malice. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you,  Miss  Denison;  it  isn't  often  you  do 
us  the  honor  of  a  visit  up  here.  You  wish  to  see  my  sister,  I 
suppose." 

"  No,  1  came  to  see  you,  and  I  won't  detain  you  long.  I 
am  commissioned  by  my  father  to  bring  you  the  money  you  so 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  247 

kindly  lent  him,  and  to  say  how  deeply  obliged  he  is  for  the 
graceful  generosity  you  have  shown  him  in  this  matter." 

Fred  Williams  was  annoyed,  but  he  did  not  seem  surprised. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  gruffly.  4<  You  needn't  sneer. 
Your  guv'nor  was  precious  glad  to  take  it  at  the  time:  that's 
all  I  know.  And  you  haven't  got  me  on  toast  as  you  think, 
for  I  saw  you  pass  here  this  morning,  and  I  followed  you  into 
Matherham,  and  I  know  what  you  did  there,"  he  added,  tri- 
umphantly. 

"  Nothing  that  I  am  ashamed  of/'  said  the  girl,  quietly. 

"  Oh,  no,  you've  too  much  cheek  to  be  ashamed  of  any- 
thing. You've  paid  me  back  to-day,  and  I'll  pay  you  back 
to-morrow.  For  to-morrow  the  workmen  begin  to  dig  in  St. 
Cuthbert's  Church-yard,  and  if  they  should  come  across  any- 
thing that'll  upset  your  friend's  apple-cart,  remember  you  had 
the  chance  to  stop  it.  And  perhaps  you  won't  feel  so  proud 
then  of  having  got  clear  of  debt  to  me  by  running  into  debt 
with  a  murderer.  Yes,  a  murderer,  Miss  High-and-Mighty," 
he  continued,  with  a  little  dance  of  delight  on  the  garden 
path.  "  And  if  you  don't  feel  jolly  well  ashamed  of  yourself 
and  your  friend  by  about  this  time  next  week,  why,  I'm  a  pol- 
ished gentleman,  that  I  am!" 

"  You  couldn't  say  anything  stronger  than  that,  Mr.  Will- 
iams," said  Olivia,  ingenuously.  "  I  suppose  1  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  to-morrow  at  St.  Cuthbert's.  Good- 
morning." 

And,  quite  unaffected  by  his  threats,  she  bowed  to  him  with 
great,  ceremony,  and  tripped  away  down  the  road  as  if  greatly 
pleased  with  her  interview. 

But  Olivia  was  not  at  ease;  she  only  appeared  so  because  she 
was  excited  to  the  pitch  of  recklessness.  As  the  day  drew  on, 
and  the  time  for  the  commencement  of  the  excavations  at  St. 
Cuthbert's  grew  nearer,  she  became  restless,  depressed,  and  so 
irritable  that  she  had  to  pass  the  time  either  out-of-doors  or  in 
her  own  rooms,  to  avoid  the  domestic  friction  which  she  felt 
she  could  not  bear  to-day.  Next  morning  she  awoke  with 
a  deadening  sense  of  being  on  the  brink  of  some  great  danger. 
At  the  breakfast-table,  at  which  she  duly  appeared  to  avoid 
giving  unnecessary  alarm  to  her  father,  her  looks  again  pro- 
voked much  comment,  which  she  bore  as  patiently  as  she 
could,  being  particularly  anxious  not  to  encourage  a  discussion 
which  might  lead  to  interference  with  a  project  she  had  in 
view.  She  was  so  impatient  to  leave  the  house  that  every 
trifling  delay  seemed  to  her  to  be  part  of  a  conspiracy  to  keep 
her  in-doors.  When  her  usual  household  duties  were  disposed 


248  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

of,  when  Mrs.  Denisou's  request  that  she  would  make  up  a 
parcel  for  the  dyer's  had  been  complied  with,  she  crept  upstairs 
with  a  heart  full  of  anxiety,  dressed,  slipped  out  of  the  house, 
and  sped  away  in  the  direction  of  St.  Cuthbert's. 

For  all  her  haste,  she  could  not  reach  the  church-yard  much 
before  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  working-men,  their  morning's 
labor  almost  over,  were  slackening  their  efforts  in  anticipation 
of  the  dinner  hour.  Already  their  invasion  had  entirely 
changed  the  aspect  of  the  church-yard.  Piles  of  scaffolding 
poles,  ladders,  and  boards  lay  just  inside  the  walls.  Planks 
placed  across  the  broken  grave-stones  formed  bridges  for  the 
passage  of  wheel-barrows  to  and  from  the  scene  of  operations. 
This,  Olivia  saw,  was  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  ex- 
tending to  the  crypt,  the  entrance  to  which  had  been  freed 
from  the  stones  and  bricks  which  had  blocked  it  up  for  so 
long.  The  men  seem  to  be  at  work  in  all  directions:  some 
were  erecting  a  scaffolding  against  the  old  tower,  the  upper  part 
of  which  was  to  be  taken  down;  some  carting  away  stones  and 
rubbish  from  the  east  end;  some  removing  that  corner  of  the 
roof  of  the  south  aisle  which,  in  a  crumbling  and  dangerous 
condition,  still  remained.  But  it  was  upon  the  corner  where 
the  old  crypt  was  that  Olivia's  attention  at  once  fixed.  For 
here,  listening  perfunctorily  with  one  ear  to  old  Mr.  Williams, 
who  had  a  self-made  man's  veneration  for  his  own  utterances, 
and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  upon  two  workmen  whose  labors 
within  the  crypt  he  was  superintending,  was  Ned  Mitchell. 

Nothing  had  happened  so  far,  Olivia  easily  guessed;  no  dis- 
coveries had  been  made;  no  alarm  had  been  given.  But  to 
her  fancy  there  hung  over  the  whole  place  the  hush  of  expect- 
ancy: the  workmen  scarcely  spoke  to  each  other,  the  on-lcokers 
seemed  to  hold  their  breath.  Another  feature  of  the  scein.- 
was  that  these  on-lookers  each  seemed  to  have  come  by  stealth, 
and  to  wish  to  remain  unnoticed  by  the  rest.  Olivia  herself. 
for  instance,  remained  outside  the  church-yard  wall,  seeing 
only  so  much  of  the  operations  as  could  be  observed  from  the 
highest  part  of  the  rough  and  broken  ground.  Then,  lurking 
behind  the  hedge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lane,  was  the  lame 
tramp,  Abel  Squires,  who  from  this  post  could  see  very  little 
more  than  the  scaffolding  poles,  but  who  had  remained  there, 
nevertheless,  since  the  moment,  early  that  morning,  when  the 
workmen  from  Sheffield  first  made  their  appearance.  Vernon 
was  inside  the  church,  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  every  one  but 
the  foreman,  to  whom  he  was  giving  certain  structural  ex- 
planations, while  Mrs.  Brander  watched  the  proceedings  from 
her  pony-carriage  in  the  lane,  and  Fred  Williams  from  the 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  249 

church  roof.  A  small  crowd  of  the  country  people,  chiefly 
children  and  old  pit-women,  filled  up  the  spaces,  and  made 
the  isolation  of  the  others  less  noticeable.  Roaming  about  the 
church-yard,  in  a  somewhat  impatient  manner,  was  also  a  gen- 
tleman whom  Olivia  did  not  immediately  recognize  as  the  doc- 
tor who  had  attended  Ned  Mitchell  in  his  illness. 

It  was  a  sultry  day,  sunless  and  heavy.  The  smoke  of  the 
Sheffield  chimneys  hung  over  the  hills  in  a  thick  black  cloud, 
and  appeared,  Olivia  thought,  to  be  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 
The  air  seemed  to  choke  instead  of  invigorate;  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  hung  parched  and  still.  The  girFs  excitement  had 
all  evaporated ;  she  waited  there  without  hope,  without  fear, 
in  a  dull  state  of  expectancy,  her  clearest  thought  being  a 
faint  wish  that  she  might  be  able  to  get  quietly  home  again 
without  having  to  speak  to  any  one.  Still  she  stood  there 
and  watched  the  workmen  slowly  putting  on  their  coats,  the 
doctor  as  he  flitted  about  the  church-yard,  without  quite  know- 
ing whether  she  were  asleep  or  awake,  whether  the  figures, 
moving  silently  about,  were  flesh  -  and  -  blood  creatures,  or 
images  seen  in  a  dream. 

Suddenly  a  breath  of  air  seemed  to  pass  over  every  one,  and 
the  stirring  of  a  more  active  life  was  felt.  It  was  a  voice  at 
the  gate  of  the  church-yard  which  broke  the  hushed  silence 
and  made  every  eye  look  up,  while  the  women  and  children 
courtesied  and  the  workmen  touched  their  caps.  The  Vicar 
of  Kishton,  cheerful  and  smiling  and  bland,  had  worked  the 
change  by  his  appearance  alone.  A  certain  listlessness,  which 
had  begun  to  creep  over  watchers  and  workers  at  the  end  of 
an  eventless  morning  under  a  sullen  sky,  disappeared.  There 
arose  a  hum  of  talk;  the  workmen  who  had  left  off  work  hur- 
ried to  their  dinner-cans;  the  few  who  were  still  digging  felt  a 
spurt  of  fresh  energy.  It  was  felt  that  the  portly  presence  of 
the  much-respected  vicar  gave  eclat  to  the  proceedings  and 
new  interest  to  a  monotonous  occupation.  Only  Ned  Mitchell 
remained  entirely  unmoved.  He  gave  the  clergyman  a  glance 
and  a  nod,  and  then  turned  again  to  the  two  men  at  work  in 
the  crypt 

"  Get  on,  you  lazy  devils!"  he  said,  kicking  a  stone  impa- 
tiently. ' '  You  might  be  millionaires,  both  of  you,  not  to 
think  it  worth  while  to  work  harder  for  the  chance  of  a  ten- 
pound  note." 

"  Why,  we've  turned  the  whole  place  out,  master,  and 
blessed  if  there's  a  blooming  thing  to  be  found  there  except 
earth  and  stones/'  said  one,  in  a  rather  grumbling  tone. 

"  Hey,  what?''  asked  Mr.   Williams,  in  a  surprised  tone, 


250  ST.  CUTHBEBT'S  TOWER. 

"  "What's  that  they're  looking  for,  eh,  Mitchell?    Something 
lost?    Something  buried,  eh?" 

"  Both  lost  and  buried/'  said  Ned,  briefly.  "  "What  do  you 
think,  parson?" 

And  he  turned  quickly  to  the  Reverend  Meredith  Brander, 
who  had  by  this  time,  after  a  triumphal  progress  between  two 
lines  of  admiring  villagers,  reached  the  group. 

"  Well,  the  church-yard  is  the  place  for  the  lost  and  buried, 
certainly,"  replied  the  vicar,  whose  bright  complexion  and 
serene  smile  were  a  charming  thing  to  see  after  the  anxious 
and  gloomy  faces  the  rest  of  the  assembly  had  been  wearing. 
1 '  But,  as  we  know,  a  time  will  come  when  we  shall  recover 
our  lost  ones,"  he  added,  with  a  gentle  solemnity. 

"  Some  of  us  will  recover  'em  sooner  than  we  bargain  for, 
perhaps,"  said  Ned,  dryly. 

The  vicar  did  not  answer;  indeed  he  looked  as  if  he  did  not 
understand.  He  nodded  pleasantly,  and  looked  round,  smil- 
ing on  such  members  of  his  family  and  of  his  congregation  as 
were  in  sight.  For  a  curious  thing  had  happened  since  his 
coming;  all  those  before-mentioned  spectators,  who  had  been 
watching  as  it  were  by  stealth,  now  with  one  accord  drew  near 
to  the  entrance  of  the  crypt,  and  cast  at  the  vicar  sidelong 
glances  of  deep  interest.  Thus  Olivia,  Mrs.  Brander,  Vernon, 
the  doctor,  and  Abel  Squires  found  themselves,  as  if  by  pre- 
concerted arrangement,  within  a  few  feet  of  each  other,  and 
yet  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  this  fact.  The  vicar  also  seemed 
not  to  notice  this,  but  Ned  Mitchell  took  in  the  curious  situa- 
tion with  a  keen  glance,  and  read  the  varied  expressions  of 
curiosity,  anxiety,  and  despondency  in  the  several  faces  with 
cynical  swiftness. 

The  men  in  the  crypt  did  not  leave  off  work  with  the  rest; 
on  the  contrary,  urged  on  by  Ned  Mitchell,  whose  tongue  grew 
sharper  with  every  order  he  gave,  they  used  pick-ax  and  spade 
with  renewed  energy. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  the  necessity  for  all  this  delving 
in  the  crypt,"  said  old  Mr.  Williams,  at  last,  rather  pomp- 
ously. 

He  was  a  man  by  habit  too  much  occupied  with  himself  to 
have  troubled  his  head  about  the  stories  and  scandals  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  no  suggestion  of  any  mystery  connected 
with  St.  Cuthbert's  had  ever  reached  his  ears. 

'  You'll  see  presently,  perhaps,"  answered  Ned,  who  be- 
trayed his  ever-increasing  excitement  only  by  the  growing  curt- 
ness  of  his  tone. 

For  he  perceived,  peering  down  into  the  gloom  where  the 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  251 

men  were  working,  that  the  digging  and  delving  had  suddenly 
ceased,  and  that,  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  little  crypt, 
both  were  kneeling  down  examining  the  lower  part  of  the  wall. 
Then  one  of  the  men  struck  a  match,  and  a  moment  later  his 
fellow- workman  came  to  the  opening. 

"  We've  found  something,  sir!"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Eh?  What?"  asked  old  Mr.  Williams,  who  began  to 
have  an  idea  that  he  was  being  made  a  fool  of. 

There  was  a  sort  of  a  rustle  and  flutter  among  the  by-stand- 
ers;  for  though  all  had  not  heard  the  workman's  words  all 
knew  that  something  had  happened.  Ned  Mitchell,  who  was 
now  so  much  excited  that  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak, 
beckoned  to  the  doctor.  The  latter,  who  was  on  the  alert, 
came  up  immediately.  He  was  an  active,  brisk  little  man, 
sparing  of  words. 

"  I  think  we  shall  want  you  now,  doctor,  please/'  said  Ned, 
in  a  voice  which  was  getting  hoarse  and  rasping.  "  What  is  it 
you  have  found,  mate?"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  workman. 

"It's  a  body,  we  think,"  your  honor — "the  body  of  a 
woman!" 

The  vicar,  on  entering  the  church-yard,  had  locked  the  gate, 
to  keep  out  the  swarm  of  unruly  boys  who  always  ooze  out  of 
the  pores  of  the  earth  when  anything  of  an  unusual  nature  is 
going  on ;  so  that  few  people  but  those  interested  in  this  dis- 
covery were  present  to  hear  the  announcement  of  it.  These 
all  pressed  forward  until  they  stood — a  silent,  excited  group — 
close  to  the  crypt  entrance.  Mrs.  Brander,  although  she  re- 
mained perfectly  quiet,  laid  her  hand,  either  from  sympathy 
or  for  support,  on  the  arm  of  her  brother-in-law.  Vernon 
himself  looked,  if  possible,  more  pale  and  haggard  than  ever, 
but  his  face  wore  its  habitual  expression  when  in  repose,  a  look 
of  grave  and  somewhat  cynical  good  humor.  The  only  notice- 
able thing  about  his  demeanor  was  his  careful  avoidance  of 
Olivia  Denison;  he  would  not  even  meet  her  eyes.  The  girl 
herself  was  white  to  the  lips  and  cold  from  head  to  foot.  Fred 
Williams,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  offered  her  the  support  of  his 
arm. 

'*  These  are  nasty  scenes  for  a  lady  to  be  present  at/'  said 
he,  with  a  little  conpunction  in  his  voice.  "  Won't  you  let  me 
take  you  away?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  signed  for  him  to  leave  her,  which 
he  did  reluctantly  and  with  some  shame.  In  the  meantime 
the  gentlemen  had  descended  into  the  crypt,  with  the  exception 
of  Vernon,  who  was  detained  by  Mrs.  Brander.  By  the  light 


252  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

of  a  lantern  and  a  torch  a  ghastly  sight  was  soon  disclosed  to 
view. 

•  In  the  lower  part  of  the  wall  of  the  crypt,  in  the  corner 
nearest  the  entrance,  to  which  no  daylight  could  ever  pierce  its 
way,  was  unearthed,  between  the  basis  of  two  of  the  pillars  sup- 
porting the  roof,  the  almost  fieshless  skeleton  of  a  woman,  the 
damp  rags  of  whose  dress,  still  recognizable,  hung  around  the 
bones  in  shrunken  folds.  The  flaring  and  flickering  of  the 
lights  on  what  had  once  been  a  beautiful  face,  on  the  remains 
of  the  finery  which  every  other  girl  in  the  village  had  once 
envied,  made  an  ever-changing,  hideous  picture,  upon  which 
the  men  all  gazed  with  feelings  of  pity,  horror,  and  disgust. 

A  savage  exclamation  burst  from  Ned's  lips.  Old  Mr.  Will- 
iams was  struck  dumb  with  horror;  for  to  him  the  discovery 
was  quite  unforeseen.  The  doctor  bent  over  the  skeleton,  and 
taking  a  lantern  into  his  own  hand,  looked  carefully  at  the 
horrible  thing,  touched  it,  removed  part  of  the  ragged  cloth- 
ing, and  muttered  something  the  rest  could  not  hear.  The 
Vicar  of  Eishton,  accustomed  to  death  in  many  forms,  main- 
tained a  demeanor  of  reverend  gravity  tempered  by  amaze- 
ment. As  the  doctor  stopped,  however,  he  interposed  with 
some  haste,  and,  coming  close  beside  him,  tried  gently  but 
firmly  to  thrust  him  aside. 

"  There  must  be  an  inquiry  into  this,  I  suppose,"  he  said; 
"  though,  for  the  sake  of  the  unhappy  man  who  committed 
this  deed,  and  whom  we  know  to  have  repented  long  ago,  1 
trust  it  may  be  made  as  quietly  as  possible.  In  the  meantime 
the  remains  must  be  laid  decently  in  some  suitable  place.  I 
would  suggest  the  church  itself. " 

The  doctor  interrupted  him  brusquely.  He,  with  the  rest, 
had  been  listening  in  dead  silence  to  the  clergyman's  words. 

"  Where  you  like,  vicar:  but  I  must  make  an  examination 
first.  If  I'm  not  mistaken,  I've  seen  something  just  now 
which  will  be  a  positive  means  of  identifying  the  murderer." 
Still  the  vicar  insisted  gently  but  with  becoming  determination : 

"  1  really  thing,  in  a  matter  touching  the  sanctity  of  the 
dead,  that  I,  as  vicar,  ought  to  have  a  voice. " 

"  But  you're  not  the  vicar  of  this  church,"  said  the  doctor, 
standing  his  ground.  "  The  Vicar  of  St.  Cuthbert's  is  your 
brother  Vernon,  and  if,  as  you  seem  to  say,  he  has  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  this  business — " 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  hearers,  and  old  Mr.  Williams 
burst  out,  "What!  What!  Vernon  Brander!  Bless  me! 
You  don't  mean  to  say — 

The  vicar  was  protesting;  Ned  Mitchell  was  swearing  and 


ST.  CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  253 

muttering;  Fred  Williams,  who  had  crept  in  during  the  last 
few  minutes,  was  whistling  softly  to  himself  to  keep  off  the 
horrors. 

Suddenly  the  doctor,  who  had  again  stooped  over  the  skele- 
ton, silenced  them  all  in  imperious  tones. 

"Stand  back,  gentlemen!  In  two  moments  I  can  satisfy 
your  curiosity  as  to  who  murdered  this  woman. " 

The  vicar  only  attempted  to  resist  this  command;  but  the 
doctor,  with  a  skillful  and  most  unceremonious  thrust,  forced 
him  back  into  the  rest  of  the  group;  and  the  next  moment  the 
reverend  arms  were  pinioned  by  Ned  Mitchell's  strong  hands. 

"  Keep  back,  can't  you?"  hissed  Ned,  roughly,  into  his  ear; 
''Murder  will  out,  you  know!  And  people  might  say  such 
ugly  things  if  they  thought  you  wanted  to  hide  the  truth." 

After  this  there  was  a  sickening,  death-like  pause,  while  the 
doctor's  hands  moved  rapidly  about  the  horrible  heap  of  human 
bones  and  tattered  finery.  Then  he  sprung  up,  and  made 
quickly  for  the  light.  The  rest  followed,  huddled  together, 
panting,  bewildered,  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep.  For  the 
doctor's  face,  old  practitioner  though  he  was,  was  livid  and 
tremulous  with  a  great  horror.  Standing  in  the  open  daylight 
they  found  him,  looking  at  something  he  held  half  concealed 
in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Brander,  Vernon,  and  Olivia  Denison  stood 
a  little  way  off,  watching  him,  but  not  daring  to  come  near. 
He  closed  his  hand  as  the  men  gathered  round  him. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  began,  gravely,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  there  are  circumstances  in  this  case  so  revolting  that  I  think 
no  good  can  come  of  making  them  public.  But  you  shall 
judge.  I  have  found,  inside  the  remains  of  that  poor  girl,  a 
ring  which,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  was  the  property  of  the 
murderer.  In  spite  of  the  decayed  state  of  the  body,  I  can 
undertake  to  say  that  this  ring  was  swallowed  by  the  girl  just 
before  her  death.  Here,"  and  he  held  up  his  closed  his  hand, 
"  is  the  ring.  Shall  I  show  it  you?" 

"No!"  said  the  Vicar  of  Eishton,  sharply.  They  all  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  the  doctor,  quietly. 

Meredith  Brander  had  recovered  the  composure  which  in- 
deed he  could  scarce  be  said  for  a  moment  to  have  lost. 

''  What  good  would  it  do?"  he  asked,  gazing  blandly  in  the 
doctor's  face. 

Dr.  Harper  returned  his  look  of  astonishment  which  became 
almost  admiration. 

"  Well, "he  answered,  "  it  would  show  up  the  most  remark- 


254  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ably  perfect  specimen  of  a  consummate  humbug  that  I  have 
ever  had  the  honor  of  meeting." 

A  curious  thing  had  happened  before  this  short  colloquy 
was  ended.  The  rest  of  the  group  had  gradually  dispersed  and 
left  the  two  men  alone  together.  As  he  uttered  the  last  words, 
the  doctor  also  turned  abruptly  away,  so  that  the  vicar  was  left 
by  himself.  He  did  not  seem  disconcerted,  but  walked,  with 
a  half  smile  on  his  face,  in  the  direction  of  the  church-yard 
gate.  His  wife,  whose  handsome  face  was  as  pale  as  that  of  a 
corpse,  and  whose  limbs  tottered  under  her,  moved,  with  falter- 
ing steps,  in  the  same  direction.  At  the  gate  stood  Abel 
Squires,  wi*o  stood  back  to  allow  the  vicar  to  pass  out  first. 
But  Meredith  Brander  would  not  allow  this.  He  turned  to 
him  with  a  kindly  nod. 

"  Well,  Abel/'  said  he,  "  I'm  afraid  this  is  a  sad  business 
for  somebody. 

"  I'm  afeard  so  too,  sir/'  replied  Abel,  with  an  immovable 
face. 

"  We  must  hush  it  up.  I'm  sure  you  would  not  like  any 
harm  to  come  to  my  brother." 

"  No  fear  o'  that,  sir,"  said  Abel.   "  I  could  prevent  that." 

"  Why,  how  so?" 

"  Ah  wur  wi'  him  all  that  evenin'.  An'  if  he  hadn't  kept 
my  tongue  quiet  all  these  years  since  then,  truth  would  ha' 
been  aht  long  ago." 

The  vicar  went  through  the  gate  without  another  word. 
But  before  he  had  taken  many  steps  in  the  lane  outside,  he  felt 
an  arm  thrust  through  his.  It  was  his  brother  Vernon,  who 
pressed  his  arm  warmly  two  or  three  times  before  he  spoke. 

"  Cheer  up,  old  chap!"  he  whispered,  huskily.  "  For  Eve- 
lyn's sake  and  the  children's  we  can  get  it  kept  it  quiet  still. " 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Meredith  threatened  to  break 
down.  He  wrung  his  brother's  hand  with  a  force  which  made 
Vernon  turn  white,  and  when  he  answered,  it  was  with  sobs  in 
his  voice. 

"I'm  a  scoundrel,  Vernie,"  he  almost  gasped.  "But  if 
you  save  me  again,  on  my  soul  I'll  be  better  to  them  than 
many  an  honest  man." 

CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

NED  MITCHELL,  although  he  had  let  Meredith  Brander  off 
easily  at  the  moment  of  the  discovery  of  the  body,  had  no  in- 
tention of  letting  his  sister's  murderer  escape  the  just  punish- 
ment of  his  crime.  The  discovery  of  the  vicar's  ring  inside 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  355 

the  poor  girl's  remains  had  not  been  altogether  unexpected  by 
Ned  and  the  doctor,  whom  he  had  taken  into  his  confidence. 
He  had  had  the  wit  to  connect  the  vicar's  loss  of  his  ring, 
which  the  girl  must  have  stolen  and  secreted  unnoticed  by  him 
in  the  course  of  their  last  fatal  interview,  with  the  strange 
threat  Nellie  Mitchell  had  uttered  to  Martha  Lowndes.  He 
had  confided  his  suspicions  to  the  doctor,  who  had  thus  been 
on  the  alert  to  prevent  Meredith  from  touching  the  remains  of 
the  murdered  girl  before  he  himself  had  examined  them. 

After  a  few  words  of  explanation  to  old  Mr.  Williams,  and 
a  little  substantial  advice  to  the  two  workmen  who  had  dug 
out  the  skeleton,  Ned  marched  off  with  Abel  Squires  in  the 
direction  of  Rishton  Vicarage.  On  the  way  they  passed  Vernon 
Brander,  who  wished  to  stop  Ned.  But  the  latter  hurried  on, 
and  to  all  the  entreaties  he  tried  to  utter  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"  If  you've  been  fool  enough  to  hold  your  tongue  for  ten 
years,  and  bear  the  blame  of  somebody  else's  crime,  that's 
nothing  to  do  with  me.  You  may  talk  till  you're  tired,  but 
my  sister's  murderer  shall  get  what  he  deserves. " 

And  he  walked  on  stubbornly  with  the  tramp. 

When  they  reached  the  vicarage,  and  asked  to  see  the  vicar, 
they  were  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  and  left  waiting  there 
for  some  minutes.  When  the  door  opened,  it  was  Mrs.  Bran- 
der, instead  of  her  husband,  who  came  in. 

"  What,  has  he  run  away  already?"  asked  Ned,  in  a  hard, 
jeering  tone. 

"No;  my  husband  does  not  yet  know  you  are  here,"  she 
answered,  in  a  very  sad  voice.  "  I  knew  you  would  come,  and 
so  I  told  the  servant  to  announce  your  arrival  to  me." 

"  What's  the  good  of  that?"  asked  Ned,  roughly.  "  You've 
done  no  harm,  and  we've  nothing  to  do  with  you,  except  that 
we're  going  to  set  you  free  from  a  rascal." 

Abel  Squires  had  withdrawn  to  the  furthest  window,  and 
tried  to  hide  himself  behind  the  curtain.  Rough  fellow  as  he 
was,  to  hear  a  man  speak  in  a  bullying  tone  to  that  beautiful, 
dignified  lady  was  too  much  for  him. 

Mrs.  Brander  had  never  in  her  life  before  looked  so  hand- 
some as  she  looked  now,  standing  erect  before  this  coarse  man, 
with  a  flush  of  deep  humiliation  in  her  cheeks  and  passionate 
entreaty  softening  her  proud  eyes. 

"But,  my  children,  my  poor  children:  they  have  done  less 
harm  in  the  world  than  your  sister  did,  and  if  you  hurt  my 
husband  you  sacrifice  them.  Think  of  that.  You  have  chil- 
dren of  your  own.  You  don't  dote  passionately  on  them  any 
more  than  I  do  on  mine;  therefore  you  can  enter  into  my  feel- 


256  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ings.  Is  it  fair,  is  it  just,  that  they  should  suffer?  I  don't 
appeal  for  myself,  for  you  don't  like  me.  But  just  think  of 
this:  for  ten  years  I  have  been  a  dutiful  wife  to  this  man,  who 
was  unfaithful  to  me  even  in  my  fresh  youth,  when  I  was 
beautiful,  so  they  said,  and  loving,  and  devoted.  Listen.  1 
knew  of  the  murder  on  the  night  he  committed  it;  for  he  came 
straight  back  with  stained  hands  and  a  face  I  never  shall  for- 
get. Do  you  not  think  that  was  something  to  forgive?  But  I 
did  it,  and  I  implore  you  to  do  it  too.  1  am  not  asking  you 
an  impossible  thing,  for  I  have  done  it  myself.  And  think 
under  what  circumstances!" 

But  Ned  remained  as  hard  as  nails. 

"  I  suppose — no  offense  to  you,  madame — your  motives 
were  not  entirely  unselfish;  and  even  if  they  were,  that's  no 
business  of  mine.  If  you  chose  to  put  up  with  him,  that  was 
your  lookout.  J  came  back  here  to  punish  my  sister's  murderer, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  be  made  a  fool  of  by  a  woman  when 
the  game's  in  my  own  hands. " 

Ned  spoke  the  more  harshly,  that  he  was  really  rather 
touched  by  her  beauty  and  her  high  spirit.  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  frank,  straightforward  manner  of  pleading  more 
to  his  taste  than  any  amount  of  tearful,  hysterical  incoherence 
would  have  been.  But  Mrs.  Brander  had  a  most  unexpected 
ally  near  at  hand.  Thumpety-thump  came  Abel  Squires,  with 
his  wooden  leg,  out  of  his  hiding-place.  He  did  not  look  at 
the  lady,  but  going  straight  up  to  Ned,  jerked  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  where  she  was  standing. 

"  Hold  hard,  Mester  Mitchell,"  said  he,  without  moving  a 
muscle  of  hisdried-up  face.  "  Ah  didn't  bargain  fur  this  when 
Ah  coom  here  to-day.  A  woman's  a  woman.  An'  t'  woman 
ye're  so  soft  abaht's  dead,  but  t'  woman  ye're  so  hard  on  's 
alive.  Steady  theer,  Mester  Mitchell,  or  Ah'll  hev  to  swear 
Ah  killed  t'  lass  mysen. " 

The  poor  woman  broke  down  at  these  words  from  the  rough 
tramp;  she  turned  away  abruptly  to  hide  the  tears  which 
sprung  to  her  eyes.  Ned,  who  was  hard,  brusque,  and  deter- 
mined, but  not  inhuman,  moved  uneasily  about  the  room. 

"  Women  have  no  business  to  interfere  in  these  matters/' 
said  he,  angrily. 

Mrs.  Brander  saw  that  there  was  hope.  She  moved  nearer 
to  him,  clasping  her  hands,  not  in  supplication,  but  because 
they  would  twitch  and  tremble,  and  so  betray  the  anguish  she 
was  suffering.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  couldn't.  But  with 
one  piteous  look  out  of  her  proud  eyes,  she  turned  away  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Ned,  in  very  ill-tempered  tones,  "  we're  wast- 


ST.  CUTHBEET'S  TOWER.  257 

ing  onr  time  here,  Abel,  and  Mrs.  Brander's.  So,  please,  ma- 
dame,  let  us  see  your  husband,  and  have  done  with  him." 

But  Mrs.  Brander  hastened  to  intercept  him  on  his  way  to 
the  door. 

"  You  will  not  be  too  hard,"  she  pleaded,  in  a  breaking 
voice.  "  You  are  not  vindictive,  I  am  sure." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  that's  just  what  I  am," 
snarled  Ned.  "  And  if  Fm  fool  enough  not  to  insist  on  the 
hanging  he  deserves,  I'm  not  going  to  let  him  off  scot-free,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"  Of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  great 
relief.  "  He  has  done  wrong — great  wrong;  and  he  must 
suffer  for  it — we  must  suffer  for  it.  Only  don't  expose  him. 
Anything  but  that." 

"  Yes,  anything  but  what  he  deserves,  of  course.  Let  us 
pass,  madaine,  please.  He  is  in  the  library,  I  suppose?" 

"  1  suppose  so,"  she  faltered. 

Ned  turned  round  abruptly. 

"  You  suppose  so!  Well,  if  he's  given  us  the  slip,  and  left 
you  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it  all,  it'll  be  the  worse  for  him." 

Mrs.  Brander  drew  herself  up  in  the  old,  proud  way,  and 
spoke  with  her  accustomed  cold  haughtiness  in  addressing  a 
person  she  disliked. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  Mr.  Mitchell.  1  can  stand  by  a 
criminal  husband;  1  would  not  by  a  cowardly  one." 

"  Do  you  call  it  courageous,  then,  to  kill  a  woman,  and  let 
another  man  bear  the  blame  for  ten  years?"  asked  Ned. 

Mrs.  Brander  did  not  answer.  She  led  the  way  across  the 
hall  to  the  study,  and  knocked. 

"  Come  in,"  called  out  the  vicar,  in  his  usual  voice. 

She  opened  the  door,  and  signed  to  the  two  men  to  follow 
her  in.  Abel  would  have  slunk  away,  but  Ned  Mitchell  kept 
a  tight  hold  on  his  arm.  Both,  however,  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, near  the  door,  while  the  lady  went  up  to  her  husband, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
comfortable  chair,  pen  still  in  hand.  He  had  been  busy  writ- 
ing, and  the  table  was  covered  with  large  sheets  of  MS.  He 
faced  the  two  intruders  with  an  air  of  mild  annoyance,  which 
would  have  made  an  on-looker  think  that  he  was  the  injured  per- 
son. Ned,  with  astonishment  which  he  would  not  admit  by  word 
or  look,  examined  the  bland,  fair  face,  with  its  healthy  com- 
plexion, frank  blue  eyes,  broad  white  forehead,  and  saw  on  it 
no  trace  of  shame,  guilt,  or  even  of  anxiety.  It  was  his  wife's 
face  which  bore  all  these  signs,  as  she  stood,  upright  and 
daring,  by  her  husband's  side,  handsome,  majestic,  and  brave. 


258  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TO  WEE. 

Ned  Mitchell  felt  that  to  deal  with  Meredith  as  he  deserved, 
while  she  remained  there,  was  impossible.  He  had  turned,  as 
if  anxious  to  put  off  the  interview.  The  vicar  changed  his 
position,  wheeling  his  chair  round,  so  that  he  could  face  the 
two  men. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  do  you  not?" 
His  tone  was  mildly  peremptory. 

"  Yes,  we  do.  But  what  we  have  to  say  we  wish  to  say  to 
you  alone. " 

"  Go,  my  dear,"  said  Meredith,  turning  kindly  to  his  wife. 

She  hesitated,  and  he  pushed  her  gently  away  from  him. 
Then  she  stooped,  kissed  his  forehead,  and  with  an  imploring 
yet  still  dignified  look  into  Ned's  reluctant  eyes  as  she  passed 
him,  she  slowly  left  the  room. 

"  Now,"  said  Mitchell,  in  a  louder,  more  assured  tone,  as  if 
much  relieved,  "  we've  got  an  account  to  settle  with  you." 

"  Well,  sit  down,  and  let  us  have  it  out. " 

Meredith  was  not  in  the  least  discomposed.  He  took  up 
the  pen  he  had  been  using,  wiped  it  carefully,  and  then  cross- 
ing his  legs  and  clasping  his  hands  over  them,  assumed  the 
attitude  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  give  private  advice  or 
consolation  to  members  of  his  flock. 

"I'm  afraid  we  are  interrupting  you,"  said  Ned,  ironically, 
as  he  prepared  to  sit  down,  which  Abel  shyly  refused  to  do. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  was  writing  my  sermon  for  next  Sunday, 
but  as  I  suppose  it  lies  with  you  whether  1  shall  be  allowed  to 
preach  it,  I  can't  complain  of  your  visit  as  an  interruption." 

"  You  take  this  business  pretty  coolly,"  said  Ned,  losing 
patience. 

Meredith  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  flash  of  fire  in  his 
blue  eyes,  a  spark  of  the  same  fierce  spirit  which  he  had  re- 
vealed to  Ned  on  the  night  when  he  conquered  and  controlled 
the  blood-hounds  at  the  cottage. 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  kept  my  head  for  ten  years  to 
lose  it  now?" 

Ned  was  taken  aback.  There  was  a  pause  before  he  said,  in 
almost  a  respectful  voice: 

"  You  admit  everything,  then?" 

"  I  admit  every thidng  you  know,  of  course.  This  man 
here  could  prove  whatever  I  might  deny.  Besides,  everybody 
knows  that  ring  is  mine;  I  did  not  know  until  to-day  how  I 
lost  it,  as  you  may  guess;  else  I  should  have  been  prepared 
with  some  story." 

Ned  Mitchell,  who  had  brought  the  ring  with  him  and  had 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWEK.  259 

fust  produced  it,  thinking  to  confound  the  vicar,  slipped  it 
back  into  his  pocket  with  uncertain  fingers. 

"  And  you  are  prepared  for  the  consequences?" 

"  As  much  prepared  as  a  man  ever  is  for  a  very  unpleasant 
contingency." 

"Even  if  the  contingency  is — what  the  law  prescribes  for 
discovered  murderers?" 

"  You  mean  hanging?" 

Ned  Mitchell  nodded,  and  the  vicar  paused. 

"  1  won't  say  that  I  am  prepared  for  that;  I  can't  say  that 
I  ever  contemplated  such  a  possibility  seriously.  It  would  be 
a  terrible  precedent  to  hang  a  vicar.  I  should  probably  get 
off  as  of  '  unsound  mind,'  and  be  confined  *  during  her  ma- 
jesty's pleasure. ' ' 

"  And  if  they  shouldn't  be  so  lenient?" 

"  Then  I  should  go  through  with  it  as  well  as  a  man  may." 

"  And  if  I  let  you  off  the  full  penalty,"  said  Ned,  wonder- 
ing if  it  were  possible  to  disturb  this  stolid  serenity,  "  what 
would  you  feel  toward  me?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  vicar,  promptly.  "  You  would 
do  it,  not  for  my  sake,  but  out  of  admiration  for  my  wife,  pity 
for  my  children,  and  because  my  arrest  would  involve  my 
brother's,  as  an  accessory  after  the  fact.  He  saw  me  immedi- 
ately after  the — the  deed — the  crime,  in  fact;  and  he  con- 
curred, if  he  did  not  assist,  in  the  concealment  of  the  body,  as 
Abel  here  probably  knows." 

"  Ay,"  said  Abel  Squires,  who  was  standing  awkwardly  as 
near  the  door  as  possible.  "  Mester  Vernon  and  me  had 
walked  nigh  all  t'  way  from  Sheffield  together,  and  we  heerd 
cries  o'  '  Murder!'  An'  Mester  Vernon  he  left  me,  an'  he 
jumped  o'er  t'  wall  into  t'  church-yard,  an'  when  he  coom 
back  he  looked  skeered  loike,  and  his  reight  hond  wur  stained 
red,  as  if  he'd  held  another  hond  that  wur  redder  still.  An' 
somehow  Ah  guessed  whose  hond  it  wur  as  he'd  been  holdin'." 

Abel,  after  delivering  this  speech  in  a  mumbling,  shame- 
faced manner,  ended  abruptly,  and  looked  at  the  door,  as  if  he 
felt  that  his  unpleasant  mission  were  over.  The  vicar  listened 
with  interest,  and  nodded  assent  to  the  latter  portion  of  the 
tramp's  words.  Ned  Mitchell  continued  to  gaze  at  Meredith 
like  a  bear  balked  of  his  prey. 

"  I  don't  believe  you've  even  felt  much  remorse  all  these 
years,"  he  said,  savagely. 

The  vicar  faced  him  frankly. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't,"  he  said.  "  That's  not  in 
my  temperament.  I  suppose  this  sounds  especially  remarka- 


260  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

ble  because  I  am  a  clergyman.  But  my  profession  was  forced 
upon  me;  I  had  to  put  an  unnatural  curb  upon  myself,  and 
succeeded  in  attaining  a  pitch  of  outward  decorum  such  as 
none  of  my  family  had  ever  reached  before.  But  the  strain 
was  too  great,  for  I  am  not  by  temperament  virtuous;  none 
of  my  family  are.  Vernon  has  an  accident,  and  not  his  nat- 
ure, to  thank  for  his  superiority.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say. " 

The  vicar  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  weary  of  the  dis- 
cussion. 

"  Then  you  don't  seem  to  have  any  conscience,"  said  Ned, 
regarding  him  in  bewilderment. 

"  Not  much,  1  suppose,"  answered  the  vicar;  "  though  in- 
deed lately  I  have  had  troubled  nights  and  shown  the  family 
tendency  toward  somnambulism,  so  my  wife  tells  me.  And 
in  rather  an  unfortunate  way,"  he  added,  with  a  half  smile. 

As  the  vicar  finished  speaking,  Ned  came  forward  with  his 
ponderous  tread,  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  the  writing-table, 
and  looked  down  at  the  clergyman's  bland  face  with  the  air  of 
a  strong  man  who  has  definitely  made  up  his  mind. 

"  Now,  then,  parson,  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  have  to  do. 
You  take  that  pen  that  you've  just  been  writing  your  precious 
sermon  with,  and  you  write  a  detailed  confession  of  your  in- 
trigue with  my  sister,  your  visits  to  her  at  night,  your  corre- 
spondence with  her,  the  way  in  which  you  murdered  her,  and 
the  way  in  which  you  disposed  of  her  body.  Then  sign  your 
name  and  put  the  date  in  full,  and  me  and  Abel  here  will 
oblige  you  by  putting  our  signatures  as  witnesses." 

"  And  if  I  do  this,  what  follows?"  asked  the  vicar,  taking 
up  the  pen  and  examining  the  nib. 

"  Then  you  get  my  permission  to  leave  this  country  for  any 
other  you  choose  with  your  wife  and  children.  And  as  long 
as  you  keep  away,  this  paper  will  never  go  out  of  my  posses- 
sion. " 

"And  if  I  don't  do  this?" 

"  What's  the  good  of  going  into  that?" 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  they  understood  each 
other.  Without  wasting  more  words,  Meredith  turned  to  the 
table,  invited  Ned  with  a  gesture  to  sit  down,  and  proceeded 
to  draw  up  the  prescribed  confession.  This  he  did  fully  and 
frankly,  adding  at  the  end  certain  graceful  expressions  of  con- 
trition which  Ned,  reading  the  document  over  carefully,  took 
for  what  they  were  worth.  The  main  body  of  the  composition 
satisfied  him,  however;  and  after  appending  his  own  signature 
to  the  confession  as  a  witness,  and  insisting  on  Abel's  adding 
his,  he  sealed  up  the  paper  with  great  solemnity.  Then,  in- 


ST.  CTJTHBERT'S  TO  WEE.  261 

•> 

timating  to  Meredith  Brander  that  the  sooner  he  carried  Out 
the  remaining  part  of  the  compact  and  left  the  country  the 
better  it  would  be  for  him,  he  left  the  room  with  the  curtest 
of  farewells,  and  hastened  out  of  the  house  to  avoid  what  he 
called  "  another  scene  with  the  woman.'* 

Once  outside  he  looked  back  at  the  vicarage  with  great  in- 
terest. 

"  If  one  had  to  be  a  rascal/'  said  he,  with  some  irrepressi- 
ble admiration,  "  that's  the  sort  of  rascal  one  would  choose  to 
be." 

Then  Abel  Squires  left  him  and  hobbled  off,  and  Ned  was 
left  to  his  pipe  and  his  reflections,  both  of  which  he  chose  to 
enjoy,  not  at  his  garden  gate,  as  usual,  but  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hill,  outside  Eishton  Hall  farm-yard. 

Before  he  had  been  there  more  than  a  few  minutes,  the 
event  he  was  prepared  for  took  place.  Olivia  Denison,  pale, 
excited,  tearful,  yet  radiant,  came  to  the  gate,  looking  out 
anxiously.  Seeing  Ned,  she  ran  out  to  him  with  a  cry. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "I 
must  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  1  had  such  unjust  thoughts  of 
you.  I  thought,  until  the  night  before  last,  that  you  meant 
to  ruin  Vernon,  in  spite  of  your  promise. ' ' 

"  Um,"  said  Ned;  "  you  hadn't  much  faith  in  your  lover, 
now,  had  you,  to  think  him  capable  of — " 

"  Hush!  never  mind  that.  You  see,  I  must  have  felt  at 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  he  was  really  good.  For  I  loved 
him  all  the  time  just  the  same." 

"  That  doesn't  follow  at  all.  Women  always  go  by  con- 
traries. The  more  of  a  villain  a  man  is,  the  more  a  woman 
likes  him.  Look  at  the  vicar  here,  and  the  way  his  wife  sticks 
to  him.  And  look  at  me,  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  and 
what  do  you  think  my  wife  cares  for  me  or  my  affections? 
Not  a  single  straw,  1  tell  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Olivia,  smiling,  "  considering  the  small 
amount  of  affection  you  seem  to  waste  on  her,  I  think  it's 
just  as  well  for  her  happiness  that  she  is  not  dying  for  love  of 
you." 

"Ah,  you're  full  of  these  new-fangled  notions  about  the 
equality  of  the  sexes.  Now,  I  say,  men  and  women  are  differ- 
ent. The  man  does  all  the  hard  work,  and  even  if  he  goes  A 
little  bit  off  the  straight  sometimes,  it's  no  more  than  he  has 
a  right  to,  provided  he  fills  the  mouths  at  home.  The  wom- 
an has  nothing  to  do  but  look  after  the  home  and  children, 
and  mend  their  clothes  and  her  husband's.  And  if  she  can't 
find  time  besides  to  be  devoted  to  her  husband,  and  to  think 


262  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

him  the  finest  fellow  on  earth  in  return  for  what  he  does  for 
her,  why,  she  ain't  worth  her  salt;  that's  all.  Now  that's  my 
marriage  code,  Miss  Denison,  though  1  can  see  by  your  face  it 
isn't  yours." 

"  I  really  haven't  considered  the  subject  much,"  replied 
Olivia,  demurely,  but  with  a  bright  blush. 

"  You  might  do  worse,  though,  than  consider  it,  now  that 
things  have  shaped  themselves  a  bit,"  said  Ned,  in  a  dry  tone. 
"Our  dear  friend  the  vicar  here  is  going  to  leave  this  country, 
in  consideration  of  a  certain  little  matter  being  hushed  up — " 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  interrupted  Olivia,  with  a  deep-drawn 
breath  of  relief;  "  that  is  good  of  you,  Mr.  Mitchell.  For  it 
would  have  been — dreadful — dreadful!" 

Ned  was  looking  away  over  the  cornfields,  where  his  sharp 
eyes  detected  a  figure  he  recognized  wandering  about  in  an 
aimless  manner. 

"  I  think  you'd  better  take  a  walk  out  into  the  meadows 
there,"  he  said,  after  a  minute's  pause,  turning  again  to  the 
young  lady,  with  a  kindly  look  on  his  hard  face.  "  It  will  do 
you  good  after  all  the  excitement  and  botherment  of  this 
morning. " 

Olivia  blushed  again. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  proud  turn  of  her  head. 
**  I  don't  care  to  go  out  again  this  afternoon.  The  air  is  much 
too  oppressive." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Ned,  with  a  dry  nod;  "then  I 
mustn't  keep  you  out  here  talking  in  the  '  oppressive  '  air,  I 
suppose.  Good-day,  Miss  Denison. " 

Good-bye,"  she  said,  gently,  holding  out  her  hand,  which 
he  shook  with  a  firm  pressure. 

Then  he  walked  up  the  bill,  talking  to  himself. 

"  These  old-country  lasses  are  fine  creatures,"  he  medi- 
tated. "  There's  Mrs.  B.,  whom  I  didn't  care  for,  and  Miss 
D.,  whom  I  did,  and  I'm  blessed  if  they  haven't  both  got  too 
good  a  spirit  to  be  married  at  all.  Yet  one  wouldn't  care  to 
see  them  old  maids  either — nor  yet  men — nor  yet  angels. 
These  high-spirited  ladies,  who  can  think  and  act  for  them- 
selves, don't  seem  to  fit  in  somehow.  One  would  feel  they 
were  kind  of  too  good  for  one.  Give  me  a  nice,  comfortable 
lass,  whom  you  needn't  study  any  more  than  a  potato.  You 
know  what  to  be  at  with  one  of  them.  By  the  bye,  now  1 
suppose  I  must  take  ship  and  see  how  my  own  potato  is  get- 
ting on." 

Nevertheless,  from  the  top  of  the  hill  he  looked  down  rather 
sentimentally  in  the  direction  of  the  old  farm.  As  he  did  so. 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER.  263 

he  caught  sight  of  a  girl's  tall  figure  in  the  meadows.     He 
laughed  maliciously. 

She's  gone  to  meet  him.  I  thought  she  would.  I'd  have 
let  off  half  a  dozen  scoundrels  to  give  that  lass  her  heart's  de- 
sire; that  I  would!" 

And  he  watched  her  till  a  rising  in  the  meadow  ground  and 
a  thick  flowering  hedge  hid  her  from  sight. 

After  a  few  minutes'  arguing  with  herself,  Olivia,  who 
guessed  the  reason  of  Ned  Mitchell's  suggestion  of  a  walk  in 
the  fields,  decided  that  she  ought  without  delay  to  let  Vernon 
Brander  know  the  result  of  the  interview  between  his  brother 
and  the  colonist.  So  she  darted  through  the  gate  and  across 
the  road  with  the  agility  of  a  deer,  in  spite  of  the  oppressive 
air.  So  excited  was  she,  so  full  of  joy  at  the  turn  affairs  had 
taken,  that  she  almost  ran  along  the  foot-path,  beside  the  sweet- 
scented  hedges  with  an  occasional  little  leap  or  bound  of  most 
undignified  happiness.  Thus  it  happened  that  when  she  came 
unexpectedly  face  to  face  with  Vernon  Brander  on  rounding  a 
thicket  of  bushes  and  small  trees,  she  was  springing  into  the 
air  with  her  face  radiant  with  delight,  and  a  soft  song — some- 
thing about  "  birds  "  and  "  love  — upon  her  lips.  Vernon, 
on  his  side,  looked,  if  anything,  even  more  haggard  and  woe- 
begone than  usual.  Both  stopped  short,  and  Olivia,  who  had 
become  on  the  instant  very  subdued,  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
confusion. 

"  Mr.  Brander,"  she  began,  in  a  cool,  almost  cold  voice,  "I 
— I — er,  I  have  just  met  Ned  Mitchell,  and  I  think  you  ought 
to  know  what  he  says." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  yes;  tell  me!" 

"He  is  going  to  hush  it  all  up,  on  condition  that  your 
brother  leaves  the  country  altogether. " 

Vernon  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and  almost  reeled 
against  the  fence  which  protected  the  thicket  on  one  side. 

"  Thank  God!"  he  whispered. 

And  he  put  one  hand  to  his  face  as  if  to  shut  out  the  fear- 
ful picture  his  imagination  and  his  fears  had  been  conjuring 
up.  Olivia  waited  impatiently  as  long  as  she  could.  At  last, 
when  she  could  bear  this  neglect  no  longer,  she  said,  rather 
tartly: 

"  Mrs.  Brander  will  have  to  go  too. " 

"  Of  course,  of  course;  she  will  go  with  her  husband." 

Vernon  was  still  in  a  dazed  state,  not  yet  understanding 
what  a  great  change  in  his  prospects  of  happiness  the  aay's 
events  had  made. 

"  I  think  it  was  very  silly  of  you  to  keep  silence  all  these 


264  ST.   CUTHBERT'S  TOWER. 

years  just  to  please  her.  It  was  she  who  made  you,  I  suppose 
— came  to  you  and  wheedled  you.  Men  are  so  easily  coaxed/' 
continued  Olivia,  disdainfully,  with  her  head  in  the  air. 

She  had  never  been  curt  and  dictatorial  like  this  with  him 
before.  Poor  Vernon,  quite  unskilled  in  the  wiles  of  her  sex, 
was  abashed  and  bewildered. 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  humbly.  "  She  came  to  me  and 
begged  me  not  to  say  anything  if  people  suspected  me.  And, 
you  see,  I  had  been  so  fond  of  her,  and  she  was  in  delicate 
health,  and  I  had  no  wife  or  children  to  be  hurt  by  what  peo- 
ple might  think  of  me.  And  so  I  promised." 

"  And  she  made  you  promise  not  to  marry,  didn't  she?" 

' '  Well,  yes.  Poor  thing,  she  had  to  do  the  best  she  could 
for  her  husband  and  children;  and,  of  course,  she  thought  if 
1  married  I  should  let  out  the  secret  to  my  wife,  and  my  wife 
would  insist  on  having  things  explained." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Olivia. 

"  And  now,"  said  Vernon,  who  was  getting  more  and  more 
downcast  under  the  influence  of  this  surprising  change  in  her, 
"  I'm  too  old  and  too  sour  to  marry,  and  I  think  I  shall  go 
away  with  them,  and  have  my  little  Kitty  to  console  me. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Olivia,  quietly,  her  voice  losing  suddenly  all 
its  buoyancy  as  well  as  all  its  momentary  sharpness;  "  I  think 
that  will  be  a  very  good  plan.  You  will  let  us  know  when 
you  intend  to  start,  won't  you,  for  my  father  and  mother  owe 
you  an  apology  first?  Now,  I  must  be  getting  back.  Good- 
evening." 

Dull  Vernon  began  at  last  to  have  a  glimmer  of  insight  into 
the  girl's  secret  feelings.  He  shook  hands  with  her,  let  her 
walk  as  far  as  the  very  end  of  the  field,  noticing  with  admira- 
tion which  had  suddenly,  after  the  strain  of  the  morning, 
again  grown  passionate,  her  springing  walk  and  graceful, 
erect  carriage.  Then  he  ran  after  her  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  and  placed  himself,  panting,  with  his  back  to  the  gate 
she  was  approaching. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  with 
sparkling  eyes  into  her  face.  "  But  you  seem  to  forget  I've 
lent  you  thirty  pounds.  I  shall  want  it  back  to  pay  my  pas- 


Olivia  caught  her  breath,  and  her  face,  which  was  wet  with 
tears,  grew  happy  again. 

"  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it,"  said  she,  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
half  saucily,  half  demurely.  ' '  But  anyhow,  you  can't  have  it. " 

"  And  why  not,  Miss  Denison?"  asked  Vernon,  coming  a 
step  nearer. 


ST.   CUTHBEKT'S  TOWER.  265 

"  Because  I — I  don't  want  you  to  go  away/'  answered  she. 

And  she  fell  into  his  arms  without  further  invitation,  and 
gave  him  a  tender  woman's  kiss,  an  earnest  of  the  love  and 
sympathy  he  had  hungered  for  these  ten  years! 

The  true  story  of  the  murder  at  St.  Cuthbert's  never  be- 
came commonly  known.  At  the  inquest  which  was  opened  on 
the  remains  found  in  the  crypt,  nobody  who  had  anything  to 
tell  told  anything  worth  hearing.  But,  then,  nobody  was  very 
anxious  to  discover  the  truth,  for  rumors  too  dreadful  for  in- 
vestigation began  to  fly  about;  and  nobody  was  astonished 
when,  the  health  of  his  children  requiring  a  change  to  a  warmer 
climate,  the  Reverend  Meredith  Brander  got,  by  the  interest 
of  his  uncle,  Lord  Stannington,  an  appointment  at  Malta,  for 
which  place  he  started,  with  his  wife  and  family,  without  de- 
lay. 

The  vacant  living  of  Rishton  was  given  by  Lord  Stanning- 
ton to  his  other  nephew,  Vernon;  and  Olivia,  though  lamenta- 
bly unlike  the  popular  ideal  of  a  clergyman's  wife,  became  as 
much  idolized  by  the  poor  of  the  parish  as  her  husband  was 
already. 

John  Oldshaw  got  Rishton  Hall  Farm;  for  Mr.  Denison's 
friends  persuaded  him  to  give  up  farming  while  he  had  still 
something  left  to  lose.  But  the  farmer  did  not  long  survive 
his  coveted  happiness.  Dying  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  he  left  his 
broad  acres  in  the  care  of  his  son  Mat,  who,  instead  of  setting 
up  as  a  country  gentleman,  as  his  sisters  declared  he  would  do 
if  he  had  any  spirit,  married  little  Lucy,  made  her  a  good  hus- 
band, and  remained  forever,  in  common  with  his  wife,  the 
idolatrous  slave  of  her  late  mistress. 

"  Theer  bean't  more'n  one  woman  in  t'  world,"  he  would 
say,  "  too  good  for  Parson  Brander.  Boot  theer  be  one,  and 
thot's  his  wife." 

But  though  "Parson  Brander"  himself  agreed  with  this, 
he  was  mistaken;  for,  like  every  other  good  woman,  she  was 
the  better,  and  the  little  world  around  her  was  the  better  for 
the  fact  that  she  was  the  noble  and  true  mate  of  a  noble  and 
true  man. 


THE  END. 


VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HIS  DISCOVERY. 


AFTER  the  very  minute  and  elaborate  paper  by  Arago,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  summary  in  Silliman's  Journal,  with  the  de- 
tailed statement  just  published  by  Lieutenant  Maury,  it  will 
not  be  supposed,  of  course,  that  in  offering  a  few  hurried 
remarks  in  reference  to  Von  Kempelen's  discovery,  I  have  any 
design  to  look  at  the  subject  in  a  scientific  point  of  view.  My 
object  is  simply,  in  the  first  place,  to  say  a  few  words  of  Von 
Kempelen  himself  (with  whom,  some  years  ago,  I  had  the 
honor  of  a  slight  personal  acquaintance),  since  everything 
which  concerns  him  must  necessarily,  at  this  moment,  be  of 
interest ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  to  look  in  a  general  way, 
and  speculatively,  at  the  results  of  the  discovery, 

It  may  be  as  well,  however,  to  premise  the  cursory  observa- 
tions which  I  have  to  offer,  by  denying,  very  decidedly,  what 
seems  to  be  a  general  impression  (gleaned,  as  usual  in  a  case 
of  this  kind,  from  the  newspapers),  viz.  :  that  this  discovery, 
astounding  as  it  unquestionably  is,  is  unanticipated. 

By  reference  to  the  "Diary  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy  "  (Cottle 
&  Munroe,  London,  pp.  150)  it  will  be  seen  at  pp.  53  and  82, 
that  this  illustrious  chemist  had  not  only  conceived  the  idea 
now  in  question,  but  had  actually  made  no  inconsiderable  prog- 
ress, experimentally,  in  the  very  identical  analysis  now  so 
triumphantly  brought  to  an  issue  by  Von  Kempelen,  who, 
although  he  makes  not  the  slightest  allusion  to  it,  is,  without 
doubt  (I  say  it  unhesitatingly,  and  can  prove  it,  if  required), 
indebted  to  the  "  Diary"  for  at  least  the  first  hint  of  his  own 
undertaking.  Although  a  little  technical,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
appending  two  passages  from  the  "  Diary,"  with  one  of  Sir 
Humphry's  equations.  [As  we  have  not  the  algebraic  signs 
necessary,  and  as  the  "  Diary  "  is  to  be  found  at  the  Athenaeum 
Library,  we  omit  here  a  small  portion  of  Mr.  Poe's  manu- 
«»eript. — Er  1 


VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HIS  DISCOVERY.         101 

The  paragraph  from  the  Courier  and  Enquirer,  which  is  now 
going  the  rounds  of  the  press,  and  which  purports  to  claim 
the  invention  for  a  Mr.  Kissam,  of  Brunswick,  Me.,  appears 
to  me,  I  confess,  a  little  apocryphal,  for  several  reasons  ; 
although  there  is  nothing  either  impossible  or  very  improb- 
able in  the  statement  made.  I  need  not  go  into  details.  My 
opinion  of  the  paragraph  is  founded  principally  upon  its  man- 
ner. It  does  not  look  true.  Persons  who  are  narrating  facts 
are  seldom  so  particular  as  Mr.  Kissam  seems  to  be,  about 
day  and  date  and  precise  location.  Besides,  if  Mr.  Kissam 
actually  did  come  upon  the  discovery  he  says  he  did,  at  the 
period  designated — nearly  eight  years  ago — how  happens  it 
that  he  took  no  steps,  on  the  instant,  to  reap  the  immense 
benefits  which  the  merest  bumpkin  must  have  known  would 
have  resulted  to  him  individually,  if  not  to  the  world  at  large, 
from  the  discovery  ?  It  seems  to  me  quite  incredible  that  any 
man,  of  common  understanding,  could  have  discovered  what 
Mr.  Kissam  says  he  did,  and  yet  have  subsequently  acted  so 
like  a  baby — so  like  an  owl — as  Mr.  Kissam  admits  that  he 
did.  By  the  way,  who  is  Mr.  Kissam  ?  and  is  not  the  whole 
paragraph  in  the  Courier  and  Enquirer  a  fabrication  got  up 
to  "make  a  talk"?  It  must  be  confessed  that  it  has  an 
amazingly  moon-hoax-y  air.  Very  little  dependence  is  to  be 
placed  upon  it,  in  my  humble  opinion  ;  and  if  I  were  not  well 
aware,  from  experience,  how  veiy  easily  men  of  science  are 
mystified  on  points  out  of  their  usual  range  of  inquiry,  I 
should  be  profoundly  astonished  at  finding  so  eminent  a  chem- 
ist as  Professor  Draper  discussing  Mr.  Kissam's  (or  is  it  Mr. 
Quizzein's?)  pretensions  to  this  discovery,  in  so  serious  a  tone. 

But  to  return  to  the  "  Diary  "  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy.  This 
pamphlet  was  not  designed  for  the  public  eye,  even  upon  the 
decease  of  the  writer,  as  any  person  at  all  conversant  with 
authorship  may  satisfy  himself  at  once  by  the  slightest  inspec- 
tion of  the  style.  At  page  13,  for  example,  near  the  middle, 
we  read,  in  reference  to  his  researches  about  the  protoxide  of 
azote  :  "  In  less  than  half  a  minute  the  respiration  being  con' 
tinued,  diminished  gradually  and  were  succeeded  by  analo- 
gous to  gentle  pressure  on  all  the  muscles."  That  the  respira- 
tion was  not  "  diminished,"  is  not  only  clear  by  the  subsequent 
context,  but  by  the  use  of  the  plural,  "  were."  The  sentence, 
no  doubt,  was  thus  intended:  "In  less  than  half  a  minute, 
the  respiration  [being  continued,  these  feelings]  diminished 
gradually,  and  were  succeeded  by  [a  sensation]  analogous  to 


102          VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HIS  DISCOVERT. 

gentle  pressure  on  all  the  muscles."  A  hundred  similar  in* 
stances  go  to  show  that  the  MS.  so  inconsiderately  published, 
was  merely  a  rough  note-book,  meant  only  for  the  writer's  own 
eye  ;  but  an  inspection  of  the  pamphlet  will  convince  almost 
any  thinking  person  of  the  truth  of  my  suggestion.  The  fact 
is,  Sir  Humphry  Davy  was  about  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  commit  himself  on  scientific  topics.  Not  only  had  he  a 
more  than  ordinary  dislike  to  quackery,  but  he  was  morbidly 
afraid  of  appearing  empirical ;  so  that,  however  fully  he  might 
have  been  convinced  that  he  was  on  the  right  track  in  the 
matter  now  in  question,  he  would  never  have  spoken  out,  un- 
til he  had  everything  ready  for  the  most  practical  demonstra- 
tion. I  verily  believe  that  his  last  moments  would  have  been 
rendered  wretched,  could  he  have  suspected  that  his  wishes 
in  regard  to  burning  this  "  Diary  "  (full  of  crude  speculations) 
would  hatfb  been  unattended  to  ;  as,  it  seems,  they  were.  I 
say  "  his  wishes,"  for  that  he  meant  to  include  this  note-book 
among  the  miscellaneous  papers  directed  "to  be  burnt,"  I 
think  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  Whether  it  escaped 
the  flames  by  good  fortune  or  by  bad,  yet  remains  to  be  seen. 
That  the  passages  quoted  above,  with  the  other  similar  ones 
referred  to,  gave  Von  Kempelen  the  hint,  I  do  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  question  ;  but  I  repeat,  it  yet  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  this  momentous  discovery  itself  (momentous  un- 
der any  circumstances),  will  be  of  service  or  disservice  to 
mankind  at  large.  That  Von  Kempelen  and  his  immediate 
friends  will  reap  a  rich  harvest,  it  would  be  folly  to  doubt  for 
a  moment.  They  will  scarcely  be  so  weak  as  not  to  "realize" 
in  time,  by  large  purchases  of  houses  and  land,  with  other 
property  of  intrinsic  value. 

In  the  brief  account  of  Von  Kempelen  which  appeared  in 
the  Home  Journal,  and  has  since  been  extensively  copied, 
several  misapprehensions  of  the  German  original  seem  to  have 
been  made  by  the  translator,  who  professes  to  have  taken  the 
passage  from  a  late  number  of  the  Presburg  Schnellpost. 
"Viele  "  has  evidently  been  misconceived  (as  it  often  is),  and 
what  the  translator  renders  by  "  sorrows,"  is  probably  "  lie- 
den,"  which,  in  its  true  version,  "sufferings,"  would  give  a 
totally  different  complexion  to  the  whole  account ;  but,  of 
course,  much  of  this  is  merely  guess,  on  my  part. 

Von  Kempelen,  however,  is  by  no  means  "  a  misanthrope," 
in  appearance,  at  least,  whatever  he  may  be  in  fact.  My  ac- 
quaintance with  him  was  casual  altogether  ;  and  I  am  scarce!/ 


VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HI8  DISCOVERY.         103 

warranted  in  saying  that  I  know  him  at  all ;  but  to  have  seen 
and  conversed  with  a  man  of  so  prodigious  a  notoriety  as  he 
has  attained,  or  will  attain  in  a  few  days,  is  not  a  small  mat- 
ter, as  times  go. 

The  Literary  World  speaks  of  him,  confidently,  as  a  native 
of  Presburg  (misled,  perhaps,  by  the  account  in  the  Home 
Journal),  but  I  am  pleased  in  being  able  to  state  positively, 
since  I  have  it  from  his  own  lips,  that  he  was  born  in  Utica, 
in  the  State  of  New  York,  although  both  his  parents,  I  be- 
lieve, are  of  Presburg  descent.  The  family  is  connected,  in 
some  way,  with  Miielze,  of  Automaton-chess-player  memory. 
[If  we  are  not  mistaken,  the  name  of  the  inventor  of  the  chess- 
player was  either  Kempelen,  Von  Kempelen,  or  something 
like  it. — ED.]  In  person  he  is  short  and  stout,  with  large, 
fat,  blue  eyes,  sandy  hair  and  whiskers,  a  wide  but  pleasing 
mouth,  fine  teeth,  and  I  think  a  Roman  nose.  There  is  some 
defect  in  one  of  his  feet.  His  address  is  frank,  and  his  whole 
manner  noticeable  for  bonhommie.  Altogether,  he  looks, 
speaks,  and  acts  as  little  like  "  a  misanthrope  "  as  any  man  I 
ever  saw.  We  were  fellow-sojourners  for  a  week,  about  six 
years  ago,  at  Earl's  Hotel,  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island  ;  and  I 
presume  that  I  conversed  with  him,  at  various  times,  for  some 
three  or  four  hours  altogether.  His  principal  topics  were 
those  of  the  day  ;  and  nothing  that  fell  from  him  led  me  to 
suspect  his  scientific  attainments.  He  left  the  hotel  before 
me,  intending  to  go  to  New  York,  and  thence  to  Bremen  ;  it 
was  in  the  latter  city  that  this  great  discovery  was  first  made 
public  ;  or,  rather,  it  was  there  that  he  was  first  suspected  of 
having  made  it.  This  is  about  all  that  I  personally  know  of 
the  now  immortal  Von  Kempelen  ;  but  I  have  thought  that 
even  these  few  details  would  have  interest  for  the  public. 

There  can  be  little  question  that  most  of  the  marvellous  ru- 
mors afloat  about  this  affair,  are  pure  inventions,  entitled  to 
about  as  much  credit  as  the  story  of  Aladdin's  lamp  ;  and  yet, 
in  a  case  of  this  kind,  as  in  the  case  of  the  discoveries  in  Cal- 
ifornia, it  is  clear  that  the  truth  may  be  stranger  than  fiction. 
The  following  anecdote,  at  least,  is  so  well  authenticated, 
that  we  may  receive  it  implicitly. 

Von  Kempelen  had  never  been  even  tolerably  well  off  dur- 
ing his  residence  at  Bremen ;  and  often,  it  was  well  known, 
he  had  been  put  to  extreme  shifts,  in  order  to  raise  trifling 
sums.  When  the  great  excitement  occurred  about  the  forgery 
on  the  house  of  Gutsmuth  &  Co.,  suspicion  was  directed  tow 


104          VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HIS  DISCOVERY. 

ard  Von  Kempelen,  on  account  of  his  having  purchased  a 
considerable  property  in  Gasperitch  Lane,  and  his  refusing, 
when  questioned,  to  explain  how  he  became  possessed  of  the 
purchase-money.  He  was  at  length  arrested,  but  nothing  de- 
cisive appearing  against  him,  was  in  the  end  set  at  liberty. 
The  police,  however,  kept  a  strict  watch  upon  his  movements, 
and  thus  discovered  that  he  left  home  frequently,  taking  al- 
ways the  same  road,  and  invariably  giving  his  watchers  the 
»Hp  in  the  neighborhood  of  that  labyrinth  of  narrow  and 
crooked  passages  known  by  the  flash-name  of  the  "  Don* 
dergat"  Finally,  by  dint  of  great  perseverance,  they  traced 
him  to  a  garret  in  an  old  house  of  seven  stories,  in  an  allej 
called  Flatplatz  ;  and,  coming  upon  him  suddenly,  found  him, 
as  they  imagined,  in  the  midst  of  his  counterfeiting  opera- 
tions.  His  agitation  is  represented  as  so  excessive  that  the 
officers  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  guilt.  After  hand- 
cuffing him,  they  searched  his  room,  or  rather  rooms  ;  for  it 
appears  he  occupied  all  the  mansarde. 

Opening  into  the  garret  where  they  caught  him,  was  a 
closet,  ten  feet  by  eight,  fitted  up  with  some  chemical  appa- 
ratus, of  which  the  object  has  not  yet  been  ascertained.  In 
one  corner  of  the  closet  was  a  very  small  furnace,  with  a  glow- 
ing fire  in  it,  and  on  the  fire  a  kind  of  duplicate  crucible — two 
crucibles  connected  by  a  tube.  One  of  these  crucibles  was 
nearly  full  of  lead  in  a  state  of  fusion,  but  not  reaching  up  to 
the  aperture  of  the  tube,  which  was  close  to  the  brim.  The 
other  crucible  had  some  liquid  in  it,  which,  as  the  officers  en- 
tered, seemed  to  be  furiously  dissipating  in  vapor.  They  re- 
late that,  on  finding  himself  taken,  Von  Kempelen  seized  the 
crucibles  with  both  hands  (which  were  encased  in  gloves  that 
afterward  turned  out  to  be  asbestic),  and  threw  the  contents 
on  the  tiled  floor.  It  was  now  that  they  handcuffed  him ; 
and,  before  proceeding  to  ransack  the  premises,  they  searched 
his  person,  but  nothing  unusual  was  found  about  him,  except- 
ing a  paper  parcel,  in  his  coat  pocket,  containing  what  was 
afterward  ascertained  to  be  a  mixture  of  antimony  and  some 
unknown  substance,  in  nearly,  but  not  quite,  equal  proportions. 
All  attempts  at  analyzing  the  unknown  substance  have,  so  far, 
failed,  but  that  it  will  ultimately  be  analyzed,  is  not  to  be 
doubted. 

Passing  out  of  the  closet  with  their  prisoner,  the  officers 
went  through  a  sort  of  ante-chamber,  in  which  nothing 
material  was  found,  to  the  chemist's  sleeping-room.  The$, 


VON  KEMPELEN  AND  HIS  DISCOVERT.         105 

here  rummaged  some  drawers  and  boxes,  but  discovered  only 
a  few  papers,  of  no  importance,  and  some  good  coin,  silver 
and  gold.  At  length,  looking  under  the  bed,  they  saw  a 
large,  common  hair  trunk,  without  hinges,  hasp,  or  lock,  and 
with  the  top  lying  carelessly  across  the  bottom  portion.  Up- 
on attempting  to  draw  this  trunk  out  from  under  the  bed, 
they  found  that,  with  their  united  strength  (there  were  three 
of  them,  all  powerful  men),  they  "  could  not  stir  it  one  inch." 
Much  astonished  at  this,  one  of  them  crawled  under  the  bed, 
and  looking  into  the  trunk,  said  : 

"No  wonder  we  couldn't  move  it — why,  it's  full  to  the 
brim  of  old  bits  of  brass !  " 

Putting  his  feet,  now,  against  the  wall,  so  as  to  get  a  good 
purchase,  and  pushing  with  all  his  force,  while  his  companions 
pulled  with  all  theirs,  the  trunk,  with  much  difficulty,  was 
slid  out  from  under  the  bed,  and  its  contents  examined. 
The  supposed  brass  with  which  it  was  filled  was  all  in  small, 
smooth  pieces,  varying  from  the  size  of  a  pea  to  that  of  a 
dollar  ;  but  the  pieces  were  irregular  in  shape,  although  all 
more  or  less  flat — looking,  upon  the  whole,  "  very  much  as 
lead  looks  when  thrown  upon  the  ground  in  a  molten  state, 
and  there  suffered  to  grow  cool."  Now,  not  one  of  these 
officers  for  a  moment  suspected  this  metal  to  be  anything  but 
brass.  The  idea  of  its  being  gold  never  entered  their  brains, 
of  course;  how  could  such  a  wild  fancy  have  entered  it? 
And  their  astonishment  may  be  well  conceived,  when  next 
day  it  became  known,  all  over  Bremen,  that  the  "  lot  of  brass  " 
which  they  had  carted  so  contemptuously  to  the  police  office, 
without  putting  themselves  to  the  trouble  of  pocketing  the 
smallest  scrap,  was  not  only  gold — real  gold — but  gold  far 
nner  than  any  employed  in  coinage — gold,  in  fact,  absolutely 
pure,  virgin,  without  the  slightest  appreciable  alloy ! 

I  need  not  go  over  the  details  of  Von  Kempelen's  confession 
(as  far  as  it  went)  and  release,  for  these  are  familiar  to  the 
public.  That  he  has  actually  realized,  in  spirit  and  in  effect, 
if  not  to  the  letter,  the  old  chimera  of  the  philosopher's  stone, 
no  sane  person  is  at  liberty  to  doubt.  The  opinions  of  Arago 
are,  of  course,  entitled  to  the  greatest  consideration  ;  but  he 
is  by  no  means  infallible  ;  and  what  he  says  of  bismuth,  in  his 
report  to  the  academy,  must  be  taken  cum  grano  Kalis.  The 
simple  truth  is,  that  up  to  this  period,  all  analysis  has  failed  ; 
and  until  Von  Kempelen  chooses  to  let  us  have  the  key  to  hi* 
own  published  enigma,  it  is  more  than  probable  that  the 


106          VON  KEMPBLEN  AND  HI8  DISCOVERY. 

matte?  will  remain,  for  years,  in  statu  quo.  All  that  yet  can 
fairly  be  said  to  be  known,  is,  that  "pure  gold  can  be  made  at 
will,  and  very  readily,  from  lead,  in  connection  with  certain 
other  substances,  in  kind  and  in  proportions,  unknoivn" 

Speculation,  of  course,  is  busy  as  to  the  immediate  and 
ultimate  results  of  this  discovery — a  discovery  which  few 
thinking  persons  will  hesitate  in  referring  to  an  increased 
interest  in  the  matter  of  gold  generally,  by  the  late  develop- 
ments in  California  ;  and  this  reflection  brings  us  inevitable 
to  another — the  exceeding  inopportuneness  of  Von  Kempelen's 
analysis.  If  many  were  prevented  from  adventuring  to  Cali- 
fornia, by  the  mere  apprehension  that  gold  would  so  materi 
ally  diminish  in  value,  on  account  of  its  plentifulness  in  the 
mines  there,  as  to  render  the  speculation  of  going  so  far  in 
search  of  it  a  doubtful  one — what  impression  will  be  wrought 
now,  upon  the  minds  of  those  about  to  emigrate,  and  espe- 
cially upon  the  minds  of  those  actually  in  the  mineral  region, 
by  the  announcement  of  this  astounding  discovery  of  Von 
Kempelen?  a  discovery  which  declares,  in  so  many  words, 
that  beyond  its  intrinsic  worth  for  manufacturing  purposes 
(whatever  that  worth  may  be),  gold  now  is,  or  at  least  soon 
will  be  (for  it  cannot  be  supposed  that  Von  Kempelen  can 
long  retain  his  secret)  of  no  greater  value  than  lead,  and  of 
far  inferior  value  to  silver.  It  is,  indeed,  exceedingly  difficult 
to  speculate  prospectively  upon  the  consequences  of  the  dis- 
covery ;  but  one  thing  may  be  positively  maintained — that 
the  announcement  of  the  discovery  six  months  ago  would 
have  had  material  influence  in  regard  to  the  settlement  of 
California. 

In  Europe,  as  yet,  the  most  noticeable  results  have  been  a 
rise  of  two  hundred  per  cent,  in  the  price  of  lead,  and  nearly 
twenty-five  per  cent,  in  that  of  silver. 


THE 

Sweet  Clover  Stories 

FOR  GIRLS 

BY  MRS.  CARRIE  L.  MAY 


INCLUDING 


Brownie  Sanford 

Nellie  Milton's  Housekeeping 

Sylvia's  Burden 

Ruth  Lovell 


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